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“you are fishing for compliments,” she said. 

Frontispiece. 


S her man Hale 


Sherman Hale 

The 

Harvard Half-Back 


By 

George Hart Rand 



R. F . FEN NO & COMPANY 

18 EAST 17th STREET J* NEW YORK 



COPYRIGHT, 1910, 

By R. F. Fenno & Company 





Sherman Hale 


©Cl A 27 3 


Contents 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. For the Honor of Harvard 9 

II. “A Gambler is a Criminal” 19 

III. A Check for Five Hundred Dollars 27 

IV. “I Do not Deny it” 35 

V. Condemned and Sentenced 43 

VI. A Girl's Loyalty 51 

VII. Uncongenial Companions 60 

VIII. The Discovery of a Missing Paper. 70 

IX. The Unmaking of a Man 81 

X. “Chubby” Nichols 90 

XI. Weakness and Degradation 100 

XII. The Opinion of an Expert 109 

XIII. Escape 120 

XIV. Annoying Delays 129 

XV. The Temptation of a Man in Want 139 

XVI. Merriweather’s Experiment 151 

XVII. The Lure of Dark Waters 163 

XVIII. Circumstantial Evidence 170 

XIX. The Hermit of Nahant 177 

XX. A Dismal Sunday 182 

XXL The Philosophy of a Man at Peace 190 

XXII. Perhaps — Sometime 197 

XXIII. Too Deep for “Chubby” Nichols. . . 205 

XXIV. A Ghost in the Doorway 213 

XXV. To Sympathetic Ears 219 

vii 


CONTENTS 


viii 


CHAPTER PAGE 

XXVI. The Temptation of a Man in Love. 226 

XXVII. The Attempt to Dispel an Illusion 235 

XXVIII. Mental Pictures 243 

XXIX. Saved from Himself 253 

XXX. A Chance Bit of News 260 

XXXI. A Midnight Visitor 270 

XXXII. The Hermit’s Confession 278 

XXXIII. ‘‘The Biggest Ass of the Bunch”. . 286 

XXXIV. Once More a Man 294 

XXXV. A Lucky Day 301 

XXXVI. “Chubby’s” Trying Ordeal 307 

XXXVII. A Night Vigil 313 

XXXVIII. More Luck — or Providence 319 

XXXIX. The Benediction of Peace 324 


SHERMAN HALE 

CHAPTER I 

POE THE HONOR OF HAEVARD 

“And SO?” 

In her eager interest Myrtice Meredith leaned for- 
ward in the canoe, her sparkling eyes intently watch- 
ing the animated face of the speaker. 

“And so,” he replied, with paddle poised aloft, “I 
took them np. I couldn’t stand it, you see, to see old 
Harvard shamed by a gang of Yale farmers.” 

“I should say^ not,” she exclaimed. “Oh, that was 
splendid. And what did the ‘farmers’ do when you 
^overed their money?” 

“They were the most surprised bunch of kids that 
you ever saw. You see when they came blustering up 
to our side of the grandstand with their hands stuffed 
with the ‘long green’ they thought they had us scared 
to a finish. It was the beginning of the eighth inning 
and the score was five to three against us. Our steady 
old Jack was weakening in the box, too, and everything 
looked blue, blue, blue. And then those blokes with 
their blue pennant came to our section, and held up 
their blooming greenbacks shouting, ‘Two to one on 
Yale.’ I tell you there was a silence that made you 
think of a graveyard. 


9 


10 


Sherman Hale 


“I have always considered that my crowd of ‘frat* 
men had a reasonable amount of pluck, hut they were 
dazed, teetotally scared stiff. Hal Dempster, ‘Chubby’ 
Nichols, and all the rest just sat there with their heads 
hanging, blue-funked, stumped by a pack of kids from 
New Haven.” 

“And you wouldn’t be stumped,” she cried. “Oh, I 
am proud of you.” 

The admiration of his companion moved Sherman 
Hale more than he realized, and a bit of unconscious 
boastfulness tinged the continuation of his narrative. 

“Me stumped ? Well, I should say not. The honor 
of Old Harvard was at stake. I was ashamed of Hal 
and ‘Chubby’ and the others, and mad as a hatter with 
those taunting youths and their flaunting banners. 

“ ‘Done,’ I shouted, jumping to my feet. Then I 
sized up their wad to amount to about two hundred 
so I added, ‘make it ^ive hundred to a thousand. Are 
you in ? 

“That was what startled them — the amount. It was 
more than they had. But they were game. I’ll say 
that for them. After a moment’s consultation they put 
it up all right, and I planked down the five hundred 
that uncle had sent me the day before ” 

“Not the money that was to pay your tuition and 
board bill ?” she gasped. 

“The very same,” he acknowledged with a little 
laugh. “What other money could I have had, do you 
think?” 

“And — and — oh, Sherman, tell me quick — did you 
win ?” 


For the Honor of Harvard 


11 


“Did I win ? Does the sun ever change its course 
and rise in the west? Does Yale ever lose its cursed 
luck? Did I win? Listen!” 

He flourished the paddle dramatically as he nar- 
rated the sequel. 

“In the first half of the eighth Yale drew a blank. 
In our half Ruby got a base hit, and Jackson fouled 
out; Stearns got to first on an error; Stevens sent a 
fly to center field. That was two out, with two men 
on bases, Ruby on third, Stearns on second. Then 
Billy White came to bat, and we all stood up and gave 
him a whooping send-off. It didn’t seem to do any 
good, however. Billy swatted twice and missed. We 
gave him another cheer — ‘Rah, rah, rah, What’s the 
matter with Billy ? He’s all right !’ You know the yell. 
Well, we’d hardly got it out before one came over the 
plate to Billy’s liking and he slammed it. Didn’t he 
slam it though ! When the uproar subsided, and we had 
a chance to take account of stock, Ruby and Stearns 
had crossed the plate and Billy sat perched on third 
base.” 

“Oh!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands. “And 
that tied the score?” 

“Exactly. That tied the score, and left Billy on 
third. Then Jack came to the bat. But he couldn’t 
make it. He knocked an easy grounder to short-stop, 
and the jig was over.” 

“But there was one inning more to play?” 

“Yes,” he admitted sadly, “there was one inning 
more. Jack passed the first Yale man on four balls; 
the second man singled; the third struck out; the 


12 


Sherman Hale 


fourth man sacrificed. And they had us just as we’d 
had them — two men on bases and two men out. It 
looked as though the next Yale batsman was going to 
duplicate Billy’s hit, too. But it went too high. It 
sailed out into Ruby’s territory, plump into his hands, 
and ” 

“Oh, he didn’t muff it?” 

“Didn’t he though? It rolled out of his hands as 
slick as though they had been greased, and two more 
runs went in for Yale. 

“Seven to five, and the beginning of the ninth in- 
ning. It looked had for my five hundred. But we got 
on our feet again and yelled ourselves hoarse. It was 
the top of our hatting list. Mason lined out a single 
on the first ball pitched; Cook followed with an out; 
Williams was passed; Ruby hit a safe one between 
first and second; and Mason scored. It began to look 
good, two men on bases again and only one out this 
time. Jackson was passed. The Yale pitcher was 
evidently getting rattled by the noise, and I didn’t 
blame him. That filled the bases and still only one 
out. 

“It was Stearns at the bat. He had made one good hit 
in the fifth. We gave him the yell and gave it to him 
again. One strike — two. Well, if he should miss it we 
still had a chance. But the third time he hit it clean, 
a straight liner, a beauty, right over the second base- 
man’s head. 

“I saw it sail away, saw Williams and Ruby start 
for home. Then I turned to 'Chubby’ Hichols and we 
fell on each other’s neck, but ” 


For the Honor of Harvard 13 


“Oh, but what?” she said breathlessly. “Tell me 
quick what happened.” 

“Nothing much,” he replied, letting his paddle slip 
back into the water and looking gloomily over the side 
of the canoe. “Nothing except that the Yale second 
baseman jumped about ten feet into the air, caught the 
ball on the tip of his glove, and touched his base for an 
unassisted double play. You can’t beat Yale luck.” 

Tor a moment he paddled savagely, pushing the 
canoe forward with long and regular strokes. It was 
Myrtice who broke the silence. 

“And the money?” 

“Gone,” he said without looking up. “Just think, if 
Buby hadn’t muffed that fly, or if Stearns’s hit had 

been an inch higher But what’s the use? It’s 

gone and that’s the end of it.” 

“And your tuition and board bills ?” 

“Are naturally unpaid. Oh, I’m up against it all 
right. You know uncle just as well as I do. He 
wouldn’t stand for my betting at all. And I can’t 
touch any of my own money without his consent. 
That’s certain. Seven months more before I am of 
age and free. Oh, Myrtice, isn’t it cussed to be bound 
up this way ? And the narrow old bigot ” 

“Hush, he’s your uncle and my guardian.” 

“Yes, your guardian and mine. Also the guardian 
of the morals of the entire world, the custodian of all 
the secrets of Almighty God, the great T am’ of the 
Christian Church, the grand 'Mogul’ of all theologians, 
the infallible ” 

“Oh, Sherman, stop!” she interrupted, reproach- 


14 


Sherman Hale 


fully, though appreciative laughter lurked in her eyes. 
“ Uncle Camwell isn’t so had when you know how to 
take him. How I ” 

“Yes, I know you get along with him all right. But 
you’re a girl and are not addicted to the ‘follies of 
youth.’ Hasn’t he preached to me until I’m tired 
to death of all his pious cant ? You ought to have seen 
how shocked he looked when he found my cigarette case 
one day on his study table, and when he learned by 
accident that I knew how to play cards. Gracious me, 
didn’t I get a lecture on the sinfulness of the ‘devil’s 
own tools !’ ” 

Sherman laughed gayly at the remembrance, and 
Myrtice with quick sympathy laughed with him. But 
there was real anxiety in her tone when she spoke 
again. 

“But what are you going to do, Sherman?” 

He shrugged his shoulders. “Ask someone who 
knows, I don’t.” 

“But you can’t graduate next week unless your bills 
are paid, can you ?” 

“Ho. But that isn’t the worst of it. I don’t know 
as I care very much for the old sheepskin. It is the 
disgrace I’m thinking about.” 

“Why don’t you tell the whole story to uncle?” she 
suggested. “Perhaps he will remember that he was 
young once. Who knows ?” 

Sherman Hale laughed harshly. “He never was 
young,” he asserted. “I know he must have been born 
just as he is now, with a clerical coat buttoned up to his 
chin and with his cold, steely eyes pronouncing in- 


For the Honor of Harvard 


15 

fallible judgment upon a fallen world. He never was 
young.” 

“ Sherman, do you want me to speak to him for you ?” 

“Ho,” he replied savagely. “I may be a fool but I’m 
not a cad. Ho, Myrtice, I don’t mean it that way,” as 
he saw the hurt look in her eyes. “I know you didn’t 
mean to insinuate that I could be mean. But don’t 
you see, dear, I can’t ask you to do my dirty work. I 
can’t because you are a girl, and I can’t, also, because 
I love you.” 

She reached out her hand and touched his wrist 
gently, and he clasped her little hand in both of his big 
ones and lifted it tenderly to his lips. 

“But what will you do ?” she repeated, when he had 
released her hand and was again urging the canoe for- 
ward in the glistening moonlight. 

“I don’t know. It is just maddening to think I have 
plenty of money, but that I can’t touch it without his 
signature. I know there are several thousands of my 
money deposited in the Hational Bank. He told me so 
a week ago. It is waiting some new investment. But 
it is deposited in his name subject only to his check.” 

“Why couldn’t you make out a check in his name 
then ?” she queried, innocently. 

“Because, you dear, unsophisticated, little girl, some 
people might not call that an exactly legal procedure. 
Besides, I can’t copy his signature.” 

“But I can,” she exclaimed, eagerly. “I have done 
it lots of times just for fun. It has so many big quirks 
in it that it fascinated me and I sat down one day and 
learned to write it. I can give just the exact turn to 


i6 


Sherman Hale 


the ‘A’ in ‘Augustus/ and the right shading in the ‘C 9 
in ‘Camwell,’ and I would defy anyone to discover that 
my flourish under the name was not his own. Why, 
that would be easy.” 

“I am afraid that you are a sadly immoral creature,” 
he said, smiling indulgently. “If you will take the 
advice of an old man of the world, like myself, you will 
not monkey with copying signatures. But here we are 
at the landing. Heigh-o!” as he rose and stretched 
himself. “It is all in a lifetime. Sometime things 
will come out all right. They always do.” 

As he stepped to the landing and turned to help her, 
another canoe glided from the shadow of the trees out 
into the bright moonlight. 

“I wonder who that is?” Sherman thought aloud, as 
he watched the single figure move silently across the 
lake. 

“I suspect it may be Mr. J. Adams Barrington,” 
laughed Myrtice as her eyes, too, followed the receding 
canoe. 

“Mr. J. Adams Barrington,” he repeated, blankly. 
“Who’s he?” 

“Why, I forgot that you hadn’t seen him, but of 
course you haven’t, for you didn’t get here until six 
o’clock and then Mr. Barrington had finished his work 
for the day. He is Uncle Camwell’s new secretary. I 
believe he is much versed in Hebrew and Sanskrit; 
also, he understands stenography and can rattle the 
keys of a typewriter. Didn’t you know that your 
worthy uncle was about to enlighten the world with a 
huge masterpiece of oriental and theological wisdom?” 


For the Honor of Harvard 


17 

“And Mr. J. Adams Barrington is helping in the 
world enlightenment.” he said lightly. 

“Exactly.” 

“And incidentally I presume the same Mr. J. Adams 
Barrington is falling in love with Miss Myrtice Mere- 
dith.” He looked up at the girl merrily as he drew the 
light canoe upon the landing. 

“Oh, nonsense,” she laughed as she took his arm. 
“Hothing of the sort. He hasn’t once looked at me, I 
am sure, and he is not my style at all.” 

“I wonder what is your style ?” he teased, as he cov- 
ered her hand with his own. 

“I think you are fishing for compliments,” she said, 
looking up at him archly. “But I will he gracious and 
tell you. My style of man is a blond, a big athletic 
blond, with wavy light hair, and clear blue eyes. He 
stands six feet tall, and weighs one hundred and ninety 
pounds, and he is the best football player on the 
’Varsity Eleven. He is impetuous, but loyal and true. 
Very often he makes mistakes, but sometime he is go- 
ing to wake up and find himself a splendid man whom 
all the world will admire.” 

“You dear, little, prejudiced sweetheart,” he mur- 
mured, as under the friendly shelter of an over-hanging 
oak he kissed her tenderly. “And my style of a girl 
is ” 

“Ho, no, you shan’t tell me,” she exclaimed, putting 
her hand over his mouth. “Come, it is getting late 
and we must hurry in.” 

She escaped from his arms and began to run up the 
avenue of oaks toward the house, but by the time she 


i8 


Sherman Hale 


had reached the second tree he had caught her again 
and, holding her tightly in the masterful way which she 
loved, he completed his sentence. 

“My style of a girl is a brunette, a petite brunette, 
with fluffy brown hair and laughing black eyes, with a 
nose ” 

“Stubbed and turned up,” she murmured, from his 
coat sleeve. 

“Piquant and saucy,” he corrected. “And with a 
mouth ” 

“Ugly and large.” 

“Just right for kissing; and with a disposition to 
laugh and to he happy, to love and to be noble. She is 
my style and her name is ‘Myrtice Meredith.’ ” 

“Children, children,” came a stern voice from the 
veranda of the large country house nearby. 

“There it is — always ‘children/ ” angrily expostu- 
lated Sherman Hale, as he released the struggling girl. 
“I wonder if that man will ever allow you and me to 
grow up. Come, here we go into the presence of His 
Eminence, the High Cockeldoorum of the Protestant 
Faith.” 

“Do you feel as if you were going to confession?” 
she inquired, as she stepped with him from the shadow 
of the tree upon the moonlighted walk. 

“Ho,” he replied shortly. “It will be something be- 
fore I confess to him. The penance of his preach- 
ments is too severe.” 


CHAPTER II 


“a gambler is a criminal” 

The Reverend Professor Augustus Camwell, D. D., 
stood upon the veranda of his summer home awaiting 
the approach of the young people with ill-concealed im- 
patience. 

The figure revealed in the moonlight was not unlike 
the caricature depicted by his irreverent nephew. The 
smooth-shaven face was expressive of that calm which 
comes from the inward consciousness of perfect attune- 
ment with the will of the Creator. The steel-gray eyes, 
peering from beneath somewhat shaggy eyebrows, 
looked out upon a world of evil with the steadfast 
assurance of the Pharisee ; while the Roman nose and 
thin-lipped, finely-chiselled mouth might have served 
as models for a bust of Augustus Csesar. 

A strange mixture of Jew and Roman was this pro- 
fessed Christian. He maintained the inerrancy of jus- 
tice as inflexibly as did the Brutus who could condemn 
his own sons to death; and he was intrenched behind 
the bulwark of divine law as firmly as was any member 
of that Sanhedrim who sent the Savior of men to 
Calvary. 

If the active brain behind that smooth and prominent 
forehead had never dwelt much upon the love of a 
Divine Father, it was because the brain had ever been 


20 


Sherman Hale 


controlled by a stern, indomitable will, and never for 
an instant had been allowed to become the instrument 
of a truly kind heart. Once in awhile in former years 
a discerning student in the Seminary had caught a 
fleeting glimpse of the hidden kindness of the man, and 
one such had stoutly maintained that “Professor Cam- 
well’s heart would be all right, if only his head would 
allow it.” 

But for the most part the students of the Seminary 
caught no glimpse of the heart of the Professor, whose 
hard-headed, logical lectures they so admired. The 
members of his Sunday congregations did not find his 
heart either, though often they were thrilled by an 
uneasy, haunting fear as they gave rapt attention to 
his lurid descriptions of the eternal sufferings of the 
sinner in the hands of an angry God. 

Por many years this able man had been looked upon 
as an ecclesiastical authority. He had been accustomed 
to have much weight given to all of his expressed 
opinions. Even his wife had never dared to cross his 
will, and after she had fluttered out her life against the 
bars of his inexorable logic, no other softening in- 
fluence had come into his life until the arrival of 
Myrtice Meredith. 

Perhaps it is not remarkable, then, that the retired 
preacher and professor should wholly fail to under- 
stand his nephew, or that the nephew in turn should 
think of his uncle as the human personification of the 
justice of a stern and implacable God, — a God who, as 
he once flippantly remarked to his associates, he pre- 
ferred not to know any more intimately. 


“A Gambler is a Criminal” 


21 


It was against the nephew that the impatience of the 
venerable man found its expression. 

“Did you know that it is past ten o’clock, Sherman V 9 
he asked petulantly, as the two truants mounted the 
steps to the veranda. “It is unpardonably thoughtless 
for you to keep Myrtice out on the water so late. Be- 
sides, you should have remembered that the hour of our 
evening prayer is set for half after nine. Come in 
quickly. I am afraid the servants are already tired of 
waiting.” 

Sherman Hale made a surreptitious grimace at the 
erect back of his dignified uncle, as with Myrtice he 
followed him into the drawing-room. 

The scripture for that evening was from the Book 
of Proverbs. When in his deep, mellow voice the 
reader intoned, “A fool and his money are soon parted,” 
again the young man made a wry face which well-nigh 
upset the gravity of Myrtice. 

The prayer was long and tedious. To most of its 
petitions with their sonorous scriptural phraseology 
both Sherman and Myrtice gave but scant attention. 
They could have repeated many of the sentences them- 
selves, so often had they heard them. But there was 
one petition which caused them to look at each other in 
amazement. 

“Oh, Almighty God, the just Ruler of the universe,” 
prayed the kneeling man, “bring into the fold of thine 
elect this youth and this maiden, if it can be done in 
accordance with thine eternal decrees. May they walk 
in the ways of prudence and of sound integrity. May 
they shun all the follies of this world, and delight only 


22 


Sherman Hale 


in thy holy law, through the merits of the incarnate 
Christ.” 

It was over at last. The servants, with almost audible 
sighs of relief, hurried from the room, and the Rev- 
erend Professor was left alone with his nephew and his 
ward. It was the moment of the day which both of the 
young people had learned to anticipate with dread. 

“Well, Sherman,” his uncle began not unkindly, 
“your visit home this time is somewhat unexpected. 
When I was in college we did not have time to gad 
about as do the boys of this generation. In those days, 
sir, we used to study. But what is it this time — not 
more money, I hope?” 

“You have struck it just right the first time, uncle,” 
Sherman replied, attempting to laugh gayly. “I ran 
down just for tonight to see if you could not advance me 
five hundred on my next quarter’s allowance.” 

“Five hundred!” gasped the professor. “Five hun- 
dred! And I sent you five hundred only last week. 
Why, young man, in my days five hundred dollars was 
enough to pay a whole year’s college expenses. And 
you have spent this past year ” 

“My own money,” completed his nephew quietly. 
“If I remember the terms of my grandfather’s will, he 
divided his property equally between yourself and my 
mother ; so that, since my mother’s death, the money is 
mine.” 

“But I am your guardian,” the other stormed. 
“Goodness me!” The good man was indulging in his 
nearest approach to profanity. “Goodness me! What 
lawless beings you young men of this generation are 


“A Gambler is a Criminal” 23 

coming to be. Do you think the law could Bafely let 
you use that money without guardianship ?” 

“ Perhaps not without guardianship, but surely with- 
out the oversight of a tyrant. I am not a kid. I ” 

“Sherman, Sherman,” remonstrated Myrtice. 

“Yes, I know,” he added, turning his flashing eyes 
toward her; “I’ll try to keep my temper, but ” 

“Keep your temper!” ejaculated his uncle. “In my 
day, sir, there never was any question about a young 
man’s keeping his temper in the presence of his 
elders.” 

“I know you were all saints then,” muttered Sher- 
man beneath his breath. 

“What is that, sir ?” the professor demanded. “What 
are you mumbling about? Speak up like a man.” 

“I was only expressing my admiration for the ex- 
emplary character of your youth,” shooting a glance of 
merriment at Myrtice. 

It was characteristic of Sherman Hale in those days 
that he could quickly forget his anger and that he was 
always ready to laugh. 

“You may well remember it,” Doctor Camwell com- 
mented, taking his nephew’s words seriously. “Com- 
pared with the conduct of the young men of these days, 
my youth certainly was exemplary. There were no 
cards, no dancing, and no late suppers. Hor did we 
waste our precious opportunities at college by giving 
up our time to the childish amusements of athletic 
games. Athletics, indeed! Devilish, I say. Another 
scheme of the wary enemy of mankind. 

“Only this morning, sir, I was reading in my paper 


Sherman Hale 


24 

that some of the college men are said to have bet 
heavily upon a game of baseball which, I believe, was 
played yesterday. Such conduct is outrageous. If I 
were president of Harvard College I would have it 
stopped if I had to send every gambler to jail.” 

“No doubt you would,” assented his nephew, bit- 
terly. 

His uncle mistook his words for an implied com- 
pliment. 

“Tut, tut,” he said, with a deprecatory gesture. “I 
might not do any better than the present incumbent. 
Who knows ? But enough of that. Tell me why you 
need five hundred dollars.” 

“To pay my bills.” 

“But I thought you said not more than ten days ago 
that the five hundred I sent you would be sufficient?” 

“Unforeseen circumstances alter cases. I find there 
are some bills which I had overlooked.” 

But as Sherman Hale uttered these words with an 
assumed ease of manner, he could not bring himself to 
look his uncle squarely in the face. The professor 
noticed the wavering eyes and his own gleamed with a 
quickly aroused suspicion. 

“You don’t mean to say that you have been gam- 
bling?” he exclaimed, springing to his feet. 

“That’s a hard word, uncle,” replied his nephew, 
now looking him unflinchingly in the face. “A gam- 
bler, I believe, is a criminal, and I am your nephew.” 

“You are right, sir, a gambler is a criminal, and he 
is still a criminal, young man, whether he is my nephew 


“A Gambler is a Criminal” 25 

or not. Tell me, have you been losing money at a 
game of chance?” 

“I lost for the honor of Harvard at a game of ball,” 
the young man corrected, speaking boldly. 

“For the honor of Harvard!” sneered the aroused 
old man. “For the honor of Harvard! Do you think 
it can be for the honor of Harvard to do a dishonorable 
thing ? Can a gambler honor his college ? Can a 
criminal ” 

“Uncle, stop!” exclaimed Sherman, springing from 
his chair. He stood fully three inches taller than the 
older man whom he confronted. “Stop, or I shall for- 
get that you are an old man and my uncle. You shall 
not use such words to me ! You cannot understand. 
You will not understand. I covered the money because 
I could not see the glory of old Harvard tarnished. I 
lost the money by the fortunes of a fair game of skill, 
and I want that five hundred dollars of my own money 
to pay my honest debts.” 

To MyrticeMeredith the silence which followed these 
bold words seemed interminable. She watched her 
guardian’s face anxiously, but his countenance was in- 
scrutable. 

The old man opened his mouth to speak, and closed 
it with a snap. With firmly set jaws he turned to 
leave the room. At the threshold he paused and looked 
back. 

“ ‘By their own mouth shall they be convicted,’ ” 
he quoted solemnly. “A gambler is a criminal, — 
whether he is my nephew or anybody else’s nephew, a 
gambler is a criminal.” 


26 


Sherman Hale 


When he had gone Sherman turned to Myrtice and 
laughed harshly. She, however, did not laugh with 
him. Instead she threw her arms about his neck and, 
pillowing her head upon his shoulder, she burst into 
tears. 


CHAPTER III 


A CHECK FOR FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS 

Professor Camwell did not sleep well that night. 
His nephew would have been much surprised if he 
could have known that until long after midnight the 
stern believer in law wrestled to overcome the demands 
of love. The old man’s love for Sherman, a love of 
whose existence the latter did not dream, clamored for 
the young man’s forgiveness. If he had obeyed the 
behest of that love, the Professor would have made out 
a check for five hundred dollars and have carried it at 
once to his nephew’s room with a few words of tender 
counsel and forebearance. 

Indeed once, before the victory of his logic was 
gained, weakly following the leadings of his heart, the 
old man rose from his bed and descended to his study. 
There he took from its resting place the book which 
contained the full account of the property of Sherman 
Hale, Minor. He noted the amount lying in deposit in 
the Nobscot National Bank, waiting to be paid the 
next week upon an investment in real estate. 

“ There is money enough,” he murmured. “Ah, per- 
haps there’s too much money. That may be his danger. 
But how better can some of it be used than to keep the 
boy from disgrace?” 

.With this thought he took out a check book and 
OTote: 


28 


Sherman Hale 


“Pay to Sherman Hale Five Hundred Dollars. ” 

He dated the check “June 18, 19 ” and duly 

numbered it. But before he had signed his name, the 
words which the boy himself had uttered rang in his 
ears. 

“A gambler is a criminal . ” 

Could he sign the check? Dared he do it? If the 
boy was not made to suffer for this act, could he be 
sure that it would be his last offense ? 

When the wearied clergyman rose from his study 
chair, his inexorable will was again in the ascendency. 
Once more had he proved the truth of the Seminary 
student’s estimate of his character, — his head would 
not let his heart have its way. Crumpling the un- 
signed check in his hand, and carelessly throwing it 
into his waste-basket, he wearily mounted the stairs to 
his chamber. 

“It is only just that he should suffer,” was his last 
waking thought. Justice had won. Love had been 
defeated. 

Myrtice Meredith did not sleep well that night, 
either. After Sherman had quieted her fears and had 
bidden her good-night, her first impulse had been to go 
to her guardian, and to plead for her lover. 

During the four years that she had been an inmate of 
Professor CamwelPs home, she had learned not only 
to respect her guardian but, strange as it often seemed 
to Sherman, she had learned to love him. And by that 
intuition, which is a part of every true woman’s pos- 
session, she knew that the Professor in turn loved her 
as he had never loved anyone since the death of his 


A Check for Five Hundred Dollars 29 


wife. How much the affection of the old man had been 
due to his life-long devotion to her dead father, she 
could not know. But she felt, and felt truly, that, 
her influence with her guardian was increasing every 
day, and that her presence in his home was brightening 
the last years of a lonely though successful life. She 
had no doubt that should she go to him, he would yield 
to her entreaty, and grant Sherman’s request, though 
she could not hope that he would condone the offense. 

But Sherman had forbidden her to plead for him. 
Almost the last words he had said to her before he had 
retired had been, 

“How, dear, no whinings. Promise me that you 
won’t try to coax him into doing what he doesn’t want 
to do. I couldn’t stand that, you know. Will you 
promise ?” 

With her lips close to his she had given him the 
promise he had desired. How, then, could she break 
her word? But how otherwise could she save her lover 
from disgrace ? 

It was some time after midnight when she threw 
on a wrapper and slipped out into the hallway. She 
had no thought at that time except to go down into the 
library to get a book. When she passed the Professor’s 
door, she was surprised to see that it stood ajar, and 
that the room within was lighted. Impulsively, she 
tapped upon the door. Beceiving no answer, she 
pushed the door wide open, and found it empty. 

“Poor man,” she said to herself with ready com- 
prehension. “He couldn’t sleep) and he has gone down 
to the study to read and, perhaps, to pray.” 


30 


Sherman Hale 


Stealing softly down the stairs she was about to turn 
into the library, when through the open study door she 
saw her guardian throw a piece of crumpled paper into 
the waste-basket. As he turned to leave the room, the 
light from the study lamp fell full upon his face. The 
face was set and stern. Just for a moment she became 
unreasonably afraid of him as she looked upon the 
hard, uncompromising lines of his face, and instinc- 
tively she shrank back behind the portiere, allowing 
him to pass upstairs without detecting her presence. 

When he had closed the door of his room, an impulse 
which she did not try to fathom led her into the study. 
She turned on the light which he had just extinguished 
and seated herself in his chair. 

“I wonder what he was doing here this time of 
night?” she mused. 

Unmindful that she was prying, she stooped to the 
waste-basket and recovered the bit of crumpled paper. 
She smoothed it out upon the table and read it very 
slowly : 

“Number 362. June 18, 19 — Nobscot National 
Bank. Pay to Sherman Hale Pive Hundred Dollars.” 

“Oh !” she gasped. “He was going to give it to him 
after all. But he changed his mind. He didn’t sign 
it.” 

Then suddenly there flashed into her mind the words 
she had spoken to Sherman in the canoe. “I know just 
how to make the quirk in the ‘A’ in ‘Augustus,’ and 
the right shading to the ‘C’ in ‘Camwell,’ and I would 
defy anyone to discover that the flourish under the 
name was not his own.” 


A Check for Five Hundred Dollars 31 


How easy it would be to sign that check ! It would 
be the work of only a moment, and Sherman could 
honorably graduate. 

How long she sat at the study table, staring at the 
bit of paper, she could not tell. After awhile she be- 
came conscious that she was strangely weary. Mechani- 
cally she rose and turned off the light. Forgetting 
entirely that she had come down stairs to get a book, 
she remounted the hall stairs, paused once at the door 
of her lover and listened to his regular breathing, 
paused again for an instant at her guardian’s door, 
assuring herself that he, too, was at last asleep, then 
like a guilty person she crept stealthily into her room 
and was soon sleeping the dreamless sleep of exhaustion. 

Of the three Sherman Hale was the one to drop to 
sleep first on that eventful night. He was young and 
superbly healthy. He had the confidence of youth in 
his own untrained abilities, and something of the in- 
dolent fatalist’s belief that in some way everything 
would come out all right. He had seen his uncle angry 
before. He had likewise often before been refused 
money that would have helped him out of other scrapes. 
But in some way he had emerged from his difficulties 
unscathed. He could even joke with himself as he 
removed his cravat and collar. 

“A stringency in the money market this time all 
right,” he soliloquized with a smile at his reflection in 
the mirror. “Hone up tighter than a drum. And who 
would think, Sherman Hale, that you had a hundred 
thousand in your own right when you can’t get a 
miserable five hundred of it. Heigho! Well, seven 


32 


Sherman Hale 


months more and I shall be free. Gee, won't it seem 
good ?” 

With this consoling thought he tumbled into bed and 
was soon living over again the excitement of yester- 
day's baseball game. 

It was nearly eight o'clock when he awaked. His 
uncle had arisen early, and without entering his study 
had already gone to the city to consult a rare manu- 
script of the Pentateuch. 

Mr. J. Adams Barrington had been working for an 
hour in the Professor's study upon the notes of the new 
book. To be exactly accurate, however, the smug sec- 
retary had not been working all that time on his em- 
ployer’s notes. The first five minutes after Professor 
Camwell’s departure from the house Mr. Barrington 
had spent before the study mirror, carefully smoothing 
the black glossy hair, which was nicely parted in the 
middle, and waxing the stubborn ends of a silky 
mustache, which was hardly long enough to deserve 
such careful treatment, or strong enough to make the 
treatment effectual. 

After this attention to his personal appearance Mr. 
Barrington spent some fifteen minutes of his valuable 
time laboriously toiling upon blank bits of paper at his 
employer's desk. He made copy after copy of some- 
thing which intensely interested him, only to tear up the 
slip of paper and throw it in the waste-basket. Pinally, 
however, he made a copy which apparently suited him. 
Taking this final slip of paper in his hand and pausing 
for a moment before the mirror, to see if the ends of 
his mustache were still in their desired position, he 


A Check for Five Hundred Dollars 33 


warily went out into the hall and ascended the stairs to 
the second story. He paused for a moment before the 
ond pause at Myrtice’s door, when the footsteps of an 
approaching chamber-maid caused him to retreat hastily 
down the stairs. 

Once more safely seated in the Professor’s study, 
before he settled to work upon the neglected notes of 
the projected hook, he took from his pocket a photo- 
graph. It was one that he had surreptitiously filched 
from an album only the day before. Long and earnestly 
did he gaze at it. Then, looking around the room 
guiltily to he sure that no one could possibly be Looking, 
he lifted the photograph to his lips and kissed it pas- 
sionately. 

“Myrtice,” he murmured, a hot flush mounting to 
his cheeks. 

When he returned the photograph to his pocket an 
angry frown disfigured his fair and scholarly brow. 

“He sha’n’t have her,” he grumbled with something 
that sounded strangely like an oath. “He is nothing 
but a spendthrift, a gambler by his own confession. 
She deserves a better fate than that. He sha’n’t have 
her. He sha’n’t, I say.” 

Then at last he settled to his work, — to be explicit, at 
exactly quarter before eight. 

At eight o’clock in the room above Sherman Hale 
opened his eyes. A few minutes later he had shaken 
off his drowsiness and had sprung out of bed. A cold 
bath so refreshed him that he was whistling merrily 
when he began to dress. 

Suddenly his whistling ceased. Upon the floor, pro- 


34 


Sherman Hale 


truding beneath bis door, he espied a slip of paper. 
The paper bore evidence of having been crumpled, but 
it had been carefully smoothed out. It was a check for 
five hundred dollars. The check was dated “June 18, 

19 ,” and bore the number “362.” It was made 

out in the unmistakable handwriting of his uncle, and 
was signed with his uncle’s name. 

“Look at that!” he exclaimed as, a few moments 
later, he burst into the dining-room where Myrtice was 
waiting for him. “The old man isn’t such a bad lot 
after all. He’s got more of the milk of human kind- 
ness in him than I gave him credit for.” 

“Where did you get that?” she asked, staring hard at 
the paper which she immediately recognized. 

“He pushed it under my door before he left this 
morning. Isn’t he a jolly old boy, after all ?” 

In his exuberance of joy he caught Myrtice around 
the waist and began to waltz with her about the room. 
The curious, half -frightened look on her face he did not 
notice. 

An hour later, whistling a merry tune, he was strid- 
ing rapidly down the avenue of oaks on his way to the 
railway station. An exquisitely dressed, scholarly-look- 
ing young man was watching him from the study win- 
dow, with an expression upon his face that was not 
pleasant to see. But Sherman did not turn around. 


CHAPTER IV 


“i DO NOT DENY IT” 

On the twenty-fourth of June the graduating class 
of Harvard received their diplomas. Myrtice Meredith 
watched the presentation with the keenest interest, and 
when Sherman Hale stepped forward to receive his 
diploma her heart beat tumultuously. 

The Reverend Professor Camwell was also an in- 
terested spectator of the ceremonies. He had been 
attending the fiftieth anniversary of his own graduation 
and his mood was mellow, softened by the self-con- 
gratulatory remembrance that God had been so good as 
to spare his life while others had been prematurely cut 
off in their sins. A gray-headed classmate sat beside 
the Professor, a man who had been able to keep his 
heart young through all the years of his business suc- 
cesses. 

“A fine young man that,” the classmate exclaimed 
enthusiastically as the stalwart athlete received his 
sheepskin. “Gad, it’s Hale, the half-back, isn’t it? 
Never saw more beautiful work on the gridiron in my 
life than his at the game last November. It was won- 
derful.” 

“He’s my nephew,” the Professor remarked quietly. 

The boyish gray-head gripped his companion’s hand. 
“Gad, ‘Cam’!” (It was the old college nickname . y 


Sherman Hale 


36 

“ You ought to be a happy man with a nephew like that. 
Why didn’t you tell me that the great Hale was your 
nephew ? Aren’t you proud of him, man ?” 

“Why ? Because he can play football ?” with a sneer. 

“Yes. Because if a man can play football he can 
play the more serious games of life as well.” 

“Humph!” 

“You’re a dried up old fossil, ‘Cam/ ” his friend 
asserted, slapping him jovially upon the back. 

Professor Camwell did not resent the familiarity. 
There was a gleam in his eyes, too, which made his 
classmate wonder if the profound scholar really was the 
fossil that he seemed. 

The following day the trio returned to “The Oaks” 
together. It was a happy trio. Sherman Hale’s gaiety 
was most contagious. Hot even his uncle could resist 
the impulse to laugh at some of his witticisms, while 
Myrtice gave herself unreservedly to the joyousness of 
the moment. 

“It’s a good time to tell him of our engagement,” he 
whispered in her ear, as he wonderingly watched the 
smile on his uncle’s face. “Why not now?” 

“Oh, you unsentimental boy,” she protested. 
“Think of being so prosaic as to announce one’s en- 
gagement in a hot, dirty, crowded Pullman. Ho, no, 
let’s wait.” 

“But, Myrtice, I have waited nearly a year, and I 
want him to know. I’m sure it will be the first thing 
that he has ever congratulated me upon.” 

“He won’t congratulate you on this,” she objected. 
“He’ll say we’re both too young. Oh, I’m afraid he’d 


“I Do Not Deny It” 


37 


separate ns until we know our minds,” she laughed 
nervously. “ Don’t tell him until you’re twenty-one. 
That’s what we agreed upon, you know.” 

“Whispering?” interrupted the Professor, suddenly 
turning his swivel chair towards them. “That won’t 
do, you know. I might think you were plotting against 
your old uncle and guardian.” He smiled with an 
attempt at jocularity. 

“Sherman,” he abruptly changed the topic, when 
neither of the people replied to his banter, “you haven’t 
told me yet how you got out of that last scrape of yours. 
You can’t tell, my boy, how much that gambling affair 
has troubled me. Why, sir, if I had done such a thing 
as that when I was a boy I don’t believe I should ever 
have smiled again. How did it come out?” 

“Why, uncle,” exclaimed his nephew in genuine sur- 
prise, “I paid all my bills with that check for five hun- 
dred dollars. I meant to have thanked you before, but 
I have been so busy with the Commencement that I 
forgot to drop you a note.” 

“Thank me — the check for five hundred,” reiterated 
the old man, bewildered. “I’m afraid I fail to follow 
you, sir. To what check do you refer ?” 

“The check that you put beneath my door last Fri- 
day morning. What other check could I mean ?” Sher- 
man in his turn was getting perplexed. 

In their agitation neither of the men noticed that 
Myrtice turned her chair to the window, so that her 
face could not be seen. 

“Goodness me, sir, what do you mean ? I did not put 
any check beneath your door.” 


Sherman Hale 


38 

“You didn’t, uncle? You are sure you didn’t?” 

“Am I sure ? Why, man alive, do you think that I 
am out of my senses ? Wouldn’t I be likely to know if 
I gave you a check for five hundred dollars ? I tell you 
I don’t know anything about it.” 

Eor the first time Sherman noticed the averted face 
of his sweetheart. Against his will there came to his 
mind the remembrance of her words in the canoe. 
“But I could. I could give the exact quirk to the A 
in Augustus, and the right shading to the C in ‘Cam- 
well. ’ And I would defy anyone to discover that the 
flourish beneath his name was not his own.” 

A horrible suspicion overwhelmed him and he became 
silent. 

“Why don’t you speak?” his uncle demanded testily. 
“Since I did not give you the check, where did it come 
from?” 

Sherman only shook his head. The irritated Pro- 
fessor misinterpreted his silence. 

“Have you nothing more to say?” he demanded. 
“You paid your bills with a check for five hundred, 
dollars signed with my name, I understand, and I 
didn’t sign it. Do you know what is the logical in- 
ference from such a procedure? You don’t mean to 
tell me, sir, that you have added forgery to your other 
accomplishments? A gambler and a forger, — you are 
progressing rapidly.” 

“Stop, sir,” Sherman laid a restraining hand upon 
his uncle’s arm. “You shall not say such things to 
me — at least not here. Have the kindness, please, to 
remember that we are in a public place and are already 


beginning to attract attention. Wait until we get 
home and I will try to explain.” 

“But, young man, you have not answered my ques- 
tion. You do not deny your guilt.” 

“It is true I do not deny it,” the young man ad- 
mitted quietly. 

With a half-stifled cry Myrtice turned towards them. 
Her face was pale, her manner strangely agitated. 

“Uncle Cam well,” she said in a voice that trembled 
with some hidden emotion, “you mustn’t be so angry 
with Sherman. I’m afraid it was I ” 

“Stop,” her lover interrupted sternly. “Don’t say 
another word. Uncle has accused me of a crime and I 
have not denied it. He has a right to be angry. Wait 
until we get home.” 

Immediately upon their arrival at “The Oaks” the 
Reverend Professor rushed into his study. 

“Have you been to the bank to-day?” he demanded 
of his astonished secretary. 

“Yes, sir. I deposited the money as you directed, 
and these checks have been returned.” 

The Professor took the cancelled checks hurriedly. 
He ran his eyes over them and in a moment he found 
the one he sought. 

“Sherman,” he shouted from the study door, “come 
in here at once.” 

But his nephew did not immediately obey. Por 
several minutes Professor Camwell paced rapidly back 
and forth in his study, while his secretary glanced at 
him curiously. The Professor opened the door to shout 
again, but before he could speak his nephew’s name 


40 


Sherman Hale 


both Sherman and Myrtice burst into the room. Their 
faces were flushed. 

“I tried to keep her out,” Sherman explained. 
“ Uncle, send her away. There is no need that she 
should he here.” 

“I can’t see as her presence can make any difference,” 
his uncle responded coldly. “I suppose she will have to 
know what all the world will soon know. Sherman, do 
you recognize this slip of paper?” 

“Wait, Uncle Camwell, wait.” Myrtice clasped his 
arm with both her hands. “I have something to tell 
you.” 

“It is no time for you to speak,” he replied, dis- 
engaging her hands. “No,” as he saw she was about to 
open her mouth. “I command you to keep still. If 
you say a word, I shall send you to your room. Sher- 
man is the one to speak now. Sir,” — he turned from the 
girl who sank into a corner and covered her face with 
her hands, — “I repeat my question. Do you recognize 
this slip of paper?” 

Sherman Hale stood erect and folded his arms across 
his chest as he replied, 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Where did you last see it?” 

“In Cambridge. I cashed it at the bank there last 
Friday afternoon.” 

“And the signature to the check ? Do you recognize 
that?” 

“It looks to me like your signature,” Sherman re- 
plied boldly. 


“I Do Not Deny It” 41 

“But I have told you that it is not my signature. Sir, 
do you deny that you forged that signature ?” 

The accused man glanced at Myrtice who was 
quietly sobbing. Then his gaze traveled to the secre- 
tary, who was watching the proceedings with great in- 
terest, a gleam of triumph kindling his black eyes. 

“Tell that man to leave the room,” Sherman de- 
manded. 

“That man is my private secretary, sir,” his uncle 
replied. “He, too, might as well know of your dis- 
grace now as at any time. Answer my question. Do 
you deny that you signed my name to that check ?” 

“I do not deny it,” he replied quietly, with his eyes 
fixed steadily upon those of his uncle. 

With a cry of anguish, Myrtice rose from her chair 
and lifted her tear-stained face to her guardian. “Wait, 
wait,” she pleaded. “Let me speak.” 

But the old man was no longer master of his emo- 
tions. With an angry exclamation he threw her one 
side. “Go to your room,” he commanded. “Go to 
your room and remain there until I send for you.” 

The girl hesitated. 

“Go,” he thundered. 

“He is right,” Sherman agreed, as he tenderly took 
her hand. “It is best for you to go to your room.” 
He led her unresistingly to the door, and closed it after 

her. 

“Well,” he said, turning back to his uncle after he 
had heard Myrtice ascend the stairs and knew that she 
was safely in her room, “are you ready to listen to my 
explanation ?” 


42 


Sherman Hale 


“ Explanation ! Explanation! What explanation 

can there be for the crime of forgery V ’ 

“Then I may as well bid you good-day,” his nephew 
said haughtily, as he turned to leave the room. 

“Wait, wait,” commanded the stern voice of his 
uncle. “Where are you going ?” 

The young man shrugged his shoulders indifferently. 
“Any where. Nowhere. To hell, maybe.” 

The Professor took no notice of the irreverence. He 
had stepped around and put his back against the door. 

“You are not going to leave this room,” he said, his 
face white with passion, or it may be with pain. “This 
is a case which demands justice. You have broken the 
law of the Commonwealth, therefore you must be dealt 
with by the law.” 

“You don’t mean ,” his nephew began, his face 

paling for the first time, “you don’t mean to call in the 
police ?” 

“I mean just that,” his uncle acquiesced. “Who am 
I to stand in the way of the course of justice ? You are 
a criminal, sir, and as a criminal you must be treated. 
Barrington, call up the police station and tell them to 
send an officer to arrest a man for forgery.” 


CHAPTER V 


CONDEMNED AND SENTENCED 


“Guilty.” 

A cynical smile played upon the lips of the prisoner 
at the bar as the word fell from the mouth of the jury- 
man. The trial had been brief, and the evidence ap- 
parently most conclusive. Eor reasons best known to 
himself, Sherman Hale had pleaded guilty. He had 
not chosen to reveal upon the witness-stand the fact of 
the discovery of the fatal check upon the floor of his 
bedroom. His whole testimony had been marked by 
listlessness and indifference. The motive for the crime 
having been most clearly shown, its opportunity being 
undeniable, and no defense worthy the name having 
been offered, the jury could reach but the one con- 
clusion. 

Nevertheless the expected word created among the 
interested spectators a feeling of pity. It seemed incred- 
ible that this stalwart young man with his clear blue 
eyes could be guilty of a deed so dishonorable. The 
sympathy of the spectators had been manifestly with 
the prisoner from the start. Equally evident was it that 
the Reverend Professor Augustus Camwell had received 
the ill-concealed antipathy of those who listened to his 
brief presentation of evidence. 


44 


Sherman Hale 


The old man’s face had been pale and drawn as he 
had taken the witness-stand to testify against his 
nephew. But his words had been judiciously chosen and 
clearly enunciated. 

“The hard-hearted wretch!” more than one listener 
had whispered to his neighbor. They had been wrong 
in their estimate, however. It was not hard-hearted- 
ness that was sustaining the learned man in this trying 
ordeal. It was only hard-headedness. He was but fol- 
lowing the inexorable logic of his sense of justice. 

Myrtice did not appear at the trial. Indeed, Sher- 
man had not seen her since that moment when he had 
led her out of his uncle’s study, nor had he once heard 
from her during the days while he awaited his trial. 
Her silence puzzled and worried him. It would have 
been a great relief as well as a sorrow if he could have 
known that the shock of his arrest had so unnerved her. 
as to confine her to her room. There was danger of 
complete nervous prostration, the physician had de- 
clared, and the trained nurse who had been hastily 
summoned had been ordered to keep from her all pos- 
sible annoyance. 

So, while Sherman was a prisoner in jail, his justice- 
loving uncle having refused to furnish the bail, Myrtice 
was virtually a prisoner in her own room. A half hour’s 
frank talk with his betrothed would have straightened 
the tangle in Sherman’s mind, which, unravelled, was 
in imminent danger of choking his very faith in 
humanity. 

It was mistaken kindness which kept the Reverend 
Professor from revealing to his nephew the illness of 


Condemned and Sentenced 


45 

Myrtice. In man fashion wholly blind to their attach- 
ment, he nevertheless knew that his nephew was fond 
of his ward, and he could not bring himself to add 
to the young man’s sufferings, however much he con- 
sidered it to be deserved. The brief and infrequent 
visits of the old man to the County Jail had been oc- 
cupied for the most part with fervent religious instruc- 
tion. Prayerfully and painfully did the old man seek 
to bring the younger man to the proper sense of his sin- 
fulness and to a hopeful state of penitence. 

It is needless to say that his efforts had been un- 
availing. Only by the severest self-control had Sherman 
Hale been able to refrain from manifesting his im- 
patience with the unwelcome religious dissertations. 
And when the door of his cell had closed behind the 
retreating form of his well meaning uncle, the prisoner 
had always thrown himself upon his cot bed with pro- 
fane ejaculations of relief. 

The summer days of isolation and confinement had 
told slightly upon the sturdy out-door frame of the 
athlete. But the change in the man most menacing had 
not been physical but psychical. A bitterness had crept 
into his heart. His customary careless belief that all 
things would somehow work out all right had insensibly 
given place to the pessimistic belief that nothing would 
ever work right. 

The distasteful piety of his uncle, the unaccountable 
silence of Myrtice, and the long hours of solitude had 
drawn lines of hardness about his mouth which were 
not good to see in a face so young and naturally 
buoyant. 


Sherman Hale 


46 

The cynical langh with which he greeted the verdict 
of the jury was a laugh as unlike his old gay exuberance 
as the dry rattle of bare limbs on a bleak wintry day is 
unlike the joyous murmur of the green leaves in the 
happy spring-time. And the most dangerous symptom 
of the difference lay in Sherman Hale’s complete un- 
consciousness of its existence. He did not know that 
his cynical laugh was expressive of anything other than 
his amused contempt at the jury’s perfectly excusable 
ignorance. 

He thought he was manifesting only the same con- 
tempt when he listened with hardening heart to the sen- 
tence of the judge. That good man felt called upon to 
make a few timely remarks concerning the pernicious 
habit of gambling. He deprecated the alarming growth 
of the practice among the young. He was horrified 
that the disease had attacked even “our great institu- 
tions of learning.” He felt that the prisoner at the bar 
should be an awful warning to the young men of the 
entire Commonwealth. 

After this more general homily, the judge became 
personal in his remarks. He could not conceive any 
excuse for the crime which had been committed. The 
prisoner at the bar came of goodly parentage. He w T as 
possessed of ample means. He had had the advantages 
of the best of religious instruction in the home of one 
of the most learned and pious of Christian gentlemen. 
Yet he had chosen to spend his days in college in the 
company of fast young men, and he had besmirched 
with crime not only his own name but the name of the 


Condemned and Sentenced 


47 


college from which he had been so recently graduated. 

“Only the youth of the prisoner at the bar,” con- 
cluded the judge, “restrains me from inflicting the 
maximum penalty of the law by imposing a term of 
confinement in State Prison. But the prisoner is 
young, and it is his first offense. I therefore sentence 
him to five years in the State Reformatory.” 

The prisoner, with the cynical smile still playing 
upon his lips, bowed gravely to the judge, and with erect 
carriage walked from the Court Room by the side of 
the sheriff. 

He found his uncle outside waiting to speak to him. 
But yielding to some hidden impulse which was alto- 
gether new to his nature, and which he did not try to 
understand, he did not take his uncle’s outstretched 
hand. With head held haughtily erect, his eyes flashing 
with suppressed anger, he put his own hand behind his 
back, as he hissed in his uncle’s ear, 

“I hope now that you are satisfied. The God of 
Justice has had his supreme way through the invaluable 
instrumentality of the great and Reverend Professor. 
Damn you, get out of my way!” 

A spasm of pain contracted the face of the venerable 
man, but his nephew striding by him towards the jail 
did not see it. 

During all the journey to Concord, Sherman Hale 
was still controlled by this new strange hardness within 
himself. He offered his wrist for the handcuff with the 
same inscrutable cynical smile. He met the curious 
glances of passers-by on the street with erect head, still 


48 


Sherman Hale 


wearing that smile of cynicism. When on the train the 
sheriff courteously removed the handcuff, he was con- 
scious of no gratitude, hut only of the sense of dull 
indifference. 

“Aren’t you afraid I shall kill you and make my 
escape ?” he asked, with no variation in the smile that 
was becoming habitual. 

“I don’t think you will get away,” the sheriff re- 
plied, tapping suggestively his hip pocket. 

The prisoner shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly 
and lighted a cigarette. 

During the remainder of the journey he said no word 
to his companion, who in turn was equally taciturn. 
But, accompanying his train of thought, the smile with 
which he had greeted the jury’s verdict and the judge’s 
sentence often came to his lips. 

In the octagonal guard-room of the State Reforma- 
tory, with its stone floor and its huge iron bars, the 
commitment papers of Sherman Hale, sentenced for 
forgery, were received and signed by the turnkey. The 
sheriff from his home county bade Sherman a good-bye, 
which was but scantily acknowledged, and took his 
leave. When the turnkey had locked the heavy iron 
door behind the departing sheriff, he turned to Sher- 
man and said laconically, 

“Come.” 

The prisoner followed the officer across the guard- 
room to the iron-grated door which opened into the 
south wing of the prison. A tap on the door with 
a huge key brought a boy in the black clothes of the 


Condemned and Sentenced 


49 

prison, with two yellow bars across each sleeve. He 
was, as Sherman afterwards discovered, a “ First 
Grade” prisoner who had attained the coveted position 
of an officer’s “runner.” Sherman was directed to pass 
through the iron door, which was immediately locked 
behind him, leaving him to the tender mercies of the 
“runner.” 

“Got any tobacco?” the “runner” whispered as they 
began to descend the iron stairs to the basement. 

Silently Sherman gave him what was left of his box 
of cigarettes. 

“Any coin?” was the next query. 

Sherman shook his head. 

“Five ‘quid’ and I’ll make it easy for you,” the 
“runner” explained. 

The cynical smile broadened into a mirthless laugh. 
“If I am not mistaken I have seen your kind before,” 
Sherman remarked. 

The “runner’s” brow darkened but he made no reply, 
for at that moment an officer was seen approaching 
along the hard stone floor of the prison's basement. 

By this officer Sherman was taken in charge. His 
name and crime were registered, and he was given his 
prison number. He was taken to the bath-room, de- 
prived of all his clothes and personal possessions ex- 
cept a ring, which they allowed him to wear. He sub- 
mitted to the minute measurements of the Bertillon 
system. He was photographed. His hair was clipped, 
and finally, clad in a cheap black wool suit of prison 
manufacture, he was conducted to the extreme end of 


5 ° 


Sherman Hale 


the south wing of the prison, where a series of larger 
cells are used for the temporary confinement of the new 
men. 

Into one of these cells Sherman Hale was uncere- 
moniously thrust, and the door was immediately locked 
behind him. 


CHAPTER VI 


A girl’s loyalty 

When Professor Camwell returned from the Court 
room, he found Myrtice awaiting him in the study. It 
was her first appearance down stairs. The girl was 
pale and worn. She was not so distraught, however, 
as to be insensible to her guardian’s apparent weariness 
and dejection. Her first words manifested a forget- 
fulness of herself and an interest in him. 

“Sit right down in your easy chair, Uncle Camwell,” 
she said, rising and taking his hat and walking stick. 
“Sit down and rest all you can while I make you a cup 
of tea. Then you can tell all about it.” 

With a sigh the old man sank into the chair and 
closed his eyes. When Myrtice returned with the tea 
she noticed with surprise and anxiety that his hand 
trembled so that he could hardly keep the liquid from 
spilling on the floor. For a few moments she leaned 
over the hack of his chair and stroked his hair gently. 

“Where is Barrington ?” the Professor asked wearily, 
after he had finished the tea. 

“I sent him out on an errand, because I wanted to 
speak with you alone. He will he hack presently.” 

“I hope so. I have some important letters to dictate. 
Was it just thoughtful of you to send him away when I 
might need him?” 


52 


Sherman Hale 


“I thought you would not mind just for a little 
while. I want you to tell me, Uncle Camwell, just what 
has happened to-day.” 

“He has been sentenced to the State Reformatory,” 
he replied, without looking up. He could not see that 
her face lost its last vestige of color, and that her hands 
clutched tightly to the back of his chair for support. 
It was several moments before she could control her 
voice enough to speak. 

“For — how — long?” at last she faltered. 

“The five year indeterminate sentence, which means 
that with good behavior he can be liberated under 
parole at the expiration of ten months.” 

“Ten months!” she gasped. 

He made no comment. 

After awhile she slipped around the chair and sat 
down upon his knee. 

“Uncle Camwell,” she said taking his hand in both 
her hot feverish ones, “I want to tell you something 
that you wouldn’t let me say that day when — you abused 
him.” 

“I would prefer not to talk about it any more,” he 
said, not ungently. “It is all over now. Nothing you 
could tell me could alter the case at all. He lost the 
money by gambling. He pleaded guilty to the crime 
of forgery. Now he has been sentenced and there is 
nothing for us to do but to try to forget him.” 

“Forget him!” she exclaimed in horror. “We 
couldn’t do that.” 

“We must try to do just that,” he said sternly. 
“There is a time when patience ceases to be a virtue. I 


A Girl’s Loyalty 


53 

have treated that boy as though he were my own son. I 
have given him every advantage. And see how he has 
repaid me. Why, girl, do you know what he did just 
now as he left the court room? He refused to shake 
hands with me when I went to bid him good-bye. 
Refused to shake hands with me, his own uncle. He 
also said things to me that were disrespectful, and he 
was actually profane. That is the way he treats me 
after all I have done for him. But I shall wash my 
hands of him to-day forever. I am going at once to 
make final arrangements for the care of his property. 
When he comes out of prison he will be of legal age, and 
he can go his own way, and may God have mercy upon 
his soul.” 

“But, Uncle Camwell,” Myrtice said gently, “he is 
your nephew, your only sister’s only son.” 

“Hephew or not,” he replied harshly, “he is a crimi- 
nal and now he is a jail-bird. He has broken the laws 
of the Commonwealth and he has forgotten his Creator. 
‘He that is unclean let him be unclean still.’ ” 

“Uncle Camwell,” she began hesitatingly, “has it 
occurred to you that perhaps he might not be so guilty 
as ” 

He interrupted her testily. “Hot guilty ? Then why 
did he say he was guilty? Ho, no, Myrtice, the case 
was clear enough. It was perfectly self-evident.” 

“But ” 

“I tell you there is no ‘but’ about it,” he interrupted, 
testily. “We’ve talked about him long enough. I 
want you to remember that he is out of our lives for- 
ever. Myrtice,” he grasped both of her hands and 


54 


Sherman Hale 


looked at her sternly, “I forbid you ever to speak of 
him again. You, too, must forget him.” 

She did not quail before his cold, glittering eyes. 
Looking him squarely in the face, she said in a voice 
that was hardly audible, 

“I love him, and some day I am going to marry 
him.” 

He dropped her hands, and pushed her from him 
almost roughly. Then he rose and began to pace angrily 
back and forth, clenching his hands and muttering to 
himself. At last he stopped and faced her with menac- 
ing eyes. 

“ Listen, girl, tomorrow I am going to make a new 
will. The property that I had planned to divine be- 
tween you two I shall bequeath to you alone. But 
after what you have just told me, I shall bequeath it 
conditionally. If you ever marry Sherman Hale, you 
will lose every cent of it. And listen again. I shall 
watch all your mail, and if I discover that you try in 
any way to communicate with him, I will put you out 
of my home. Do you hear, girl?” 

“I hear.” The words were barely whispered. 

“And will you obey?” 

“I have told you,” she replied simply, “that I love 
him and that some day I am going to marry him.” 

“Go to your room,” he thundered. 

With halting steps she started to obey him, but at the 
door she paused. 

“Have you that cancelled check ?” she asked timidly. 

“Go to your room,” he repeated, without answering 
her question. 


A Girl’s Loyalty 


55 


As she opened the door, Mr. J. Adams Barrington 
appeared in the hall. The secretary’s face flushed as 
he saw Myrtice, and as he stood aside to let her pass he 
put his hand to his face and coughed with evident 
embarrassment. 

For two more days Myrtice Meredith did not leave 
her room. But on the afternoon of the third day, when 
the monotonous voice in the study below informed her 
that her guardian was engaged in dictating to his sec- 
retary, she stole quietly down stairs and out of the 
house. In her hand she carried two letters, and the 
route she chose for her afternoon’s stroll was the shaded 
country road which led to the village post-office. 

She had traversed but half of the distance, however, 
before she began to feel faint. She had not reckoned 
upon the weakness of her recent illness. Somewhat 
alarmed and thoroughly disgusted with herself, she sat 
down beneath the shade of a maple, and leaning her 
head against the tree wearily closed her eyes. 

“Oh, God,” — the prayer was without words — wrung 
from her anxious heart. “Oh, God, in some way let me 
get these letters to the post.” 

For the first time, the isolation of her guardian’s 
summer home filled her with unreasoning anger. The 
absence of all mail facilities, which had been to her as 
well as to the scholarly professor a source of congratu- 
lation, now struck her with dismay. If there were only 
a mail box nearby. Or if only there were a postman to 
make but diurnal deliveries. Or if she were only 
strong enough to ride her horse, provided always that 
•her guardian would let her ride alone. How easy then 


Sherman Hale 


56 

it would be to mail these letters ! But there was noth- 
ing, nothing but the country post-office two miles away. 

While she was thus meditating, as she tried to re- 
cover her strength, she became conscious of the hoof- 
beats of an approaching horse. She opened her eyes 
eagerly. Was it someone going to the village who could 
take her letters for her? 

The rider proved to be Mr. J. Adams Barrington. 
He reined in his horse before Myrtice and looked at her 
diffidently, his face flushing painfully. 

“Aren’t you taking rather a long walk?” he asked 
hesitatingly, as he lifted his hat. 

Myrtice had felt an unaccountable antipathy to this 
man from the moment of their first meeting. Yet he 
was well educated and perfectly gentlemanly in his 
bearing. Moreover, as her guardian’s secretary he had 
frequently been a guest at his table. She therefore had 
no option but to be courteous in her treatment of him. 

“Rather a long walk,” she assented, trying to smile 
naturally. 

“But you look weary,” he remarked with an expres- 
sion that was meant to be ingratiating. “Was it wise, I 
wonder, for you to go so far ? Wouldn’t I better return 
and come after you in the dog-cart ?” 

“Oh no, thank you,” she replied. “I shall be all 
right after I have rested. It is a little warmer than I 
thought it would be, that is all. It was so stuffy in my 
room that I wanted to get out and take the air.” 

She lifted her hand to her face as she spoke, and for 
the first time he noticed the letters lying in her lap. 

“At least,” he simpered, “if you will not let me get 


A Girl’s Loyalty 


57 


the cart to carry you home, you will let me mail those 
letters for you, won’t you? I am sure you will agree 
with me that it would he very unwise for you to walk 
to the village.” 

“If you will be so good,” she murmured, but the 
slight hesitation in her manner did not escape his ob- 
servation. 

“No, don’t rise,” he entreated, as she made a move- 
ment to hand him the letters. Dismounting quickly, he 
took them from her hand. 

“If you are here when I come back,” he said, as he 
again vaulted to the saddle, “I think I shall have to get 
the dog-cart anyway.” 

He lifted his hat again as he rode away, and when 
he was out of sight beyond the curve in the road, he 
stroked his thin mustache in self-congratulation. 

“I don’t think that was so bad,” he boasted to him- 
self. “I impressed her that time all right or my name is 
not James Adams Barrington. It will go hard with 
me if I cannot get her now that Hale is out of the way.” 

The next action of Mr. Barrington revealed his true 
character and showed that his gentlemanly manner was 
but the veneer of a mean and narrow soul. With no 
suggestion of embarrassment he took up the letters 
which Myrtice had given him and read their addresses. 

“Mr. Sherman Hale, 

State Reformatory, 

Concord, Mass.” 

he read aloud. “Ah, that looks good, doesn’t it ? 1 Sher- 
man Hale, State Reformatory !’ Well, where else could 


Sherman Hale 


*8 

a gambler and a forger expect to be? I think I will 
see what the fair one has written to her imprisoned 
lover. A prisoner’s mail must be inspected, I believe,” 
he chuckled, as he carefully opened the envelope with 
his pen-knife. His face flushed angrily as he delib- 
erately read the closely written sheets. 

“She thinks she loves him that way, does she ? Well, 
he sha’n’t have her.” 

As he turned to the second page of the epistle a look 
of surprise crept into his face. 

“So ho, so that’s the way the wind blows, is it? 
Well, I don’t think it would be for the peace of Mr. 
Sherman Hale’s mind to know that. Fancy thinking 
one’s own sweetheart a ” 

He did not complete the sentence, for a passing 
automobile forced him to give his \ attention to his 
restive horse. After the automobile had disappeared, 
he tore the letter which he had been reading into 
shreds, and scattered the fragments broadcast into the 
wild blackberry bushes which flanked the road. 

The first letter thus disposed of, he looked again at 
the address upon the second. 

“Hon. Edward Cressy, 

Court House.” 

He laughed softly as he dropped the letter into his 
pocket for future examination. 

“I am very much afraid this one, too, will have to be 
destroyed,” he soliloquized. “If I am not mistaken, 
Edward Cressy is the lawyer who defended Hale. The 
contents of this letter might make him feel that he had 


A Girl’s Loyalty 


59 


been professionally negligent. Besides, it might not 
be best for Miss Myrtice Meredith, or — for Mr. J. 
Adams Barrington.” 

Smirking with self-satisfaction, the worthy secretary 
put the spur to his horse, and rode rapidly to the com- 
pletion of his errand. 


CHAPTER VII 


UNCONGENIAL COMPANIONS 

Sherman Hale found that the cell into which he had 
been thrust already contained two occupants. 

One of them, a tall, slightly built, stoop-shouldered 
man, was sitting upon a hard-bottomed wooden chair, 
apparently engaged in reading the Hew Testament. 
The other, evidently much younger, lay upon the coarse 
grey blanket which covered a narrow bed in the corner 
of the room. There were three of these narrow, blanket- 
covered cots, and three hard wooden chairs. A set wash 
basin supplied with a cold water faucet completed the 
room’s furnishings. The reader closed his book with a 
harsh laugh as soon as the officer had relocked the door 
and disappeared. 

“Thought it might be the ‘Chap,’ ” he explained, 
turning a pair of sharp though shifty eyes to the new- 
comer. “In this ‘jug’ it pays to play the pious dodge. 
How, out in Hew York at the Elmira the pious dodge 
don’t go for a cent. They don’t even have a ‘Chap’ out 
there. I like this better. When I was here last time, 
I was the old ‘Chap’s’ most confidential adviser; ran 
his prayer meetings for him, was president of his 
Christian Endeavor Society, and pulled his leg for a 
place in the Sunday choir. God, man, you want to get 
into that choir, if you know what’s good for you. The 


Uncongenial Companions 


61 


choir men get out of their rooms for all Sunday after- 
noons, and have a special feed of mashed potato and 
boiled beef. It’s great.” 

“You seem to have had quite a respectable amount of 
experience,” remarked Sherman, as he threw himself 
upon the bed which was evidently meant for his use. 

It cannot be truthfully said that he was interested in 
his loquacious companion. The remark was actuated 
more by cynical amusement, and perhaps also by a de- 
sire to check the man’s garrulity. 

“Oh, I’ve been doing time off and on ever since I can 
remember,” the man replied with conscious pride, 
“though the folks in this State don’t know it. This is 
only my second time here. I had another name in 
Chicago, and another one still in He w York, and in 
Baltimore I was pinched under a different name from 
either.” 

“You must have led an extremely interesting life,” 
murmured Sherman with indifference. 

“I should say so. I could ‘yarn’ about my scrapes 
for a week, but I won’t.” 

“Thanks!” Sherman ejaculated dully. 

“You wouldn’t believe what I could tell you,” the 
other continued without heeding the interruption. 
“It’s exciting, I tell you. The life of the ‘light-fingered' 
for mine. It pays, too, if you know how to work it 
right. What’s your graft, pard ?” 

“I don’t know as I comprehend your meaning,” 
Sherman replied, smiling in the hard mirthless way 
that was so new and unbecoming to him. 

“Oh, tut, you ain’t so green as you make out. I’ve 


62 


Sherman Hale 


seen your kind before. Talk like a college professor, 
bold your head high like a bloke with a big wad of the 
‘green goods’ in your inside pocket. Bet a thousand to 
one you’re a ‘con’ man. How did you happen to get 
pinched ?” 

The inquisition was getting too personal to suit 
Sherman. 

“Don’t you think, my wise friend,” he said, “that 
your investigations have gone far enough ? If you 
know I am a ‘con’ man, let it go at that. It doesn’t 
matter to me what you think. Who’s our mutual 
friend on the bed ?” 

“Oh, he’s only a kid, a lead-pipe sort, I expect.” 

“A ‘lead-pipe’ sort ? What does that mean ?” 

“Oh, chuck it. What’s the use of trying to play your 
innocent game here? A ‘lead-pipe’ thief, if you must 
know, is one who hasn’t got spunk enough to tackle 
anything more dangerous than the cutting of lead pipe 
from empty houses. Bah! The cowards make me 
sick. On the quiet, that’s the only trouble with this 
place. There’s lots of kids here who don’t know any- 
thing and who haven’t any grit in them. That kid over 
there now has been blubbering ever since they shoved 
him in here this morning.” 

Sherman rose and went over to the bedside of the 
boy. As he leaned over him he saw a face whose refine- 
ment and effeminacy almost startled him. The veined 
eyelids were closed in sleep, and the long dark lashes 
were still wet with his recent tears. The full red lips 
of the boy were parted in a smile, for in his dreams he 
was evidently finding respite from his sorrows. Sher- 


Uncongenial Companions 63 


man knew that the face into which he looked belonged 
to one who could not be more than fifteen or sixteen 
years of age. As he gazed, the hard look on his own 
face softened into momentary tenderness. 

“My God ! ” he exclaimed as he turned away. 
“What a shame to put a hoy like that in here.” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” the other man demurred with a 
shrug of his shoulders. “He’ll learn a lot of things here 
that’ll be good for him. I was just about his age when 
I got hauled in the first time, and green — God! you 
could wipe the green off me with a dish cloth. Came 
from the country, too, just like him. Hayseed sticking 
all over me. But I got it brushed off here all right. 
Why, it was in a place like this out in Ohio where I 
first learned how to lift a watch. Bud Downey taught 
me. He was doing time there under another name, 
which I don’t remember. 

“If the kid there is as likely as he’d ought to be with 
that head on him, he’ll get wise here inside of three 
months, and when he goes out there’ll be no more farm- 
ing in the rural community for him. The next time he 
won’t get caught so easy, and if he does get pinched now 
and then he’ll learn to take his medicine like a man. 
It ain’t so bad when you know the ropes. Eighteen 
months for me this time, but I got enough out of that 
last deal to make it worth while. Say, pard, you ain’t 
•* got a ‘crumb’ about you, have you ?” 

“A crumb of what?” 

“Tobacco, goosey. You’ll learn quick enough that a 
‘crumb’ in here means a chew of tobacco.” 

“Don’t they allow you to have tobacco in here ?” 


Sherman Hale 


64 

“Not much, but we get it. There are ways enough 
if a fellow keeps his eyes peeled. Ah, here comes the 
grub.” 

An officer’s “runner” brought to the door three plates 
upon each of which was placed a limited supply of 
boiled beef, a single boiled potato, and a piece of 
bread. 

“Saturday night,” remarked the man who “knew the 
ropes.” “We can always tell by the grub. Boiled beef 
Saturday night after the yard hour, and beef stew 
Thursday noon. That’s all the meat you’ll get except 
meat hash on Monday. Sunday noon, clam chowder; 
Monday, hash; Tuesday, baked beans; Wednesday, 
soup; Thursday, beef stew; Friday, boiled cod fish; 
Saturday, boiled beef. There you are. How does that 
strike you for a bill of fare ? Sounds like Delmonico’s, 
don’t it? For breakfast, mush and milk, coffee without 
milk. For supper, except Saturday night, bread and 
sometimes butter. Whew ! Don’t it make your mouth 
water ? Eighteen months ! God ! And if I could have 
had one minute more I’d got clear.” 

“But we don’t have to stay here always, do we?” 

“You are a fresh ‘fish’ and no mistake. Say, pard, 
honest, wa’n’t you ever pinched before? No? Well, 
cheer up. You probably will be again many times. 
Well, son, listen ! You’ll be here only a day or two un- 
til they get you assigned to some work. Then you’ll 
have a nice little room all to yourself. Six feet by nine, 
a chair and a bed, and cold water to wash in, with all 
the light that can come through the nice iron gratings 
of your door. You’ll have to work days and sleep nights, 


Uncongenial Companions 65 


if you can. You’ll march to your work in the pretty 
prison lock-step. Ever see it V 9 

The speaker laughed cruelly as he saw his hearer 
wince. 

“And from work,” he continued, “you’ll he marched 
to the big dining room for your soup or your hash, then 
back to work, and then hack to supper, and then to your 
nice little room. Perhaps they’ll let you go to school 
for an hour or two in the evening, if you are good and 
don’t know too much, hut there’ll be the night in that 
little room anyway, with the door double locked and 
the fellows snoring all along the corridor. It will he 
too hot to sleep in the summer, and in the winter there 
won’t he blankets enough to keep you warm. And 
there’s just space enough in that room to take four steps 
— four steps back and forth, back and forth. Doesn’t 
it sound interesting? Eighteen months! Oh, God, if 
I’d only had that other minute ! 

“Sunday’s the worst day — no work and no supper. 
Chapel in the morning, marching in and out in the same 
pretty lock-step, with the visitors in the gallery looking 
down at you. But Sunday afternoon it’s the little 
room for you, a hard chair to sit on and a hard bed to 
lie on, and four steps each way, hack and forth, three 
hundred trips to a mile. Ain’t you glad you came V 9 

Sherman Hale made no reply, as he tried in vain to 
swallow some of the wholesome hut wholly unappetiz- 
ing food. 

Eor three days he remained with his two companions 
in the temporary cell. During that time he learned that 
the man who was so proud of his criminal careei was 


66 


Sherman Hale 


known by the name of Bill Haley. The boy’s name was 
Arthur Brown. 

The boy was not quite sixteen years old. His parents 
had quarreled and separated when Arthur had been 
barely four, and he had been allowed to grow up under 
the nominal care of an intemperate uncle. The uncle’s 
wife from the start had objected to the care of “the 
brat,” and the boy’s life with his aunt had been a con- 
tinual struggle. Somewhat independent by nature, 
there had been times when the boy had rebelled against 
the undeserved punishments which had been imposed 
upon him. Often he had wanted to run away. Once he 
had actually succeeded in getting out of town, but he 
had been discovered and brought back and most cruelly 
punished. A second attempt at flight had ended in his 
arrest and conviction under the technical crime known 
as “ stubbornness,” which means in too many cases, as 
it meant in the case of Arthur Brown, that selfish 
guardians have wearied of the care of one whom by 
Nature’s law they ought to love, and for whom by God’s 
law they are to be held responsible. 

On Tuesday morning the three new prisoners were 
assigned to their work and their individual cells in the 
long corridor. Sherman Hale’s cell was about midway 
down the lowest tier on the north side of the east wing. 
The occupant of the cell next to his on the right was a 
big burly, dirty negro; Haley was next to him on the 
left, and Arthur Brown’s cell was next to Haley’s. 

Sherman Hale’s introduction to the prison lock-step 
was an excruciating torture. With his hand upon the 
shoulder of the ill-smelling negro, his chest pressed 


Uncongenial Companions 


67 

closely to the negro’s back, he marched to and from his 
work and his meals, with Bill Haley pressing close upon 
him from behind. 

The prison lock-step is an unnecessary insult to the 
American manhood of those prisoners who still have 
any manhood left. It deprives a man of his individu- 
ality and makes him a part of a helpless machine. The 
promiscuous association in close contact of self-respect- 
ing men with characters the most debased is not only 
cruelly degrading, but it defeats the very purpose for 
which reformatories are supposed to exist. 1 Ho criminal 
can be reformed unless there is inherent within him 
some spark of self-respect upon which the reformation 
can be based. And few men can retain their self-respect 
in the degradation of the prison lock-step. If our re- 
formatories exist for the purpose of un-making men, 
and of creating criminals, there can be no more 
ingeniously devised institution. If they exist for the 
purpose of reclaiming criminals and of saving men, the 
institution of the lock-step should be abolished. 

The first day of the lock-step filled Sherman Hale 
with intolerable disgust. The smell of the negro clung 
to his clothes, and after he had removed his clothes the 
odor haunted his very dreams. The second day, dis- 
gust at his associates in the line gave place to a loathing 
of himself. By the end of the second week his self- 
loathing became a fixed habit. He cursed himself for 
allowing the insult to his manhood. He declared each 
morning that he would break away from the line, brave 
the officers’ wrath, and accept the punishment. But 
when the time came he did not carry out his purpose, not 


68 


Sherman Hale 


so much from lack of physical courage as from sheer 
mental inertia. What would he the use ? What was the 
use of anything? 

The long months dragged by. The hot stifling nights, 
when it seemed that the closeness and foulness of his 
cell would choke him, finally gave place to the cooler 
nights of autumn, and of early winter. Then the damp- 
ness of the ground floor crept through the iron bars in 
his cell door with a chill that penetrated to the very 
marrow of his bones. 

Through the hot nights and the cold nights, Sherman 
Hale tossed upon his hard bed and thought bitterly of 
God and of fate. During the days he attended to his 
work stolidly, never voluntarily speaking to anyone, 
answering the necessary instructions of the officers with 
short, surly monosyllables. In the great dining room 
with its thousand silent prisoners, he ate what was 
given to him with cynical indifference. On Sundays he 
marched between the negro and Bill Haley into the 
chapel. Sometimes he listened to the chaplain whom as 
a man he learned to respect. But the teachings of the 
chaplain’s religion had no interest for him. When the 
good man prayed, as often he did, for the “dear ones at 
home,” the hard smile did not leave Sherman’s lips. 

In the weekly hour of comparative freedom in the 
yard on Saturday afternoon, Sherman Hale remained 
morosely by himself. Bill Haley attempted to he 
friendly, hut he was rudely repulsed. Tobacco traffickers 
tried to interest him in their operations, hut he gave 
them no encouragement. The only one of all the pris- 
oners in whom he felt the slightest interest was the boy, 


Uncongenial Companions 69 

Arthur Brown. But he did not seek the companionship 
of the boy, and Arthur himself, did not suspect the 
interest until they had both been in prison for nearly 
four months. 

During all these days, while the cynical smile deep- 
ened and while the self-loathing grew to be an intoler- 
able burden, no word came to him from Myrtice Mere- 
dith. Twice he used his privilege of writing a fort- 
nightly letter, and sent missives to his betrothed. In the 
first one, be released her from her engagement to a “jail 
bird.” In the second, he humbled himself and asked 
for a word from her, just one word to save him from the 
nameless something that seemed to be strangling his 
very manhood. 

Other prisoners received letters from home and loved 
ones. The letters, which had all first been read by the 
prison officials, were delivered each night in the great 
dining room. At first Sherman Hale watched the daily 
delivery of the mail with some interest, and when the 
messenger came to his own table his pulses quickened 
with hope. But after awhile he witnessed the proceed- 
ing with stolid indifference, viewing the delight or the 
disappointment depicted upon his companions’ faces 
with the air of cynical aloofness which always went 
with him to his cell and which deepened the hard, 
disfiguring lines in his face, as he listlessly paced back 
and forth in his narrow quarters — four steps each way — 
three hundred trips to a mile. 


CHAPTER VIII 


THE DISCOVERY OE A MISSING PAPER 

The days passed slowly and drearily in the summer 
home of Professor Camwell. The reverend professor 
himself was apparently completely engrossed in his 
book. But though many hours each day were spent in 
his study, Mr. Barrington, had he chosen, could have 
testified that the old man was at times strangely pre- 
occupied, and that his inaccuracies of statement were 
most unlike his customary preciseness. 

His inability to concentrate his thoughts upon his 
work was most noticeable in the mornings, when ordi- 
narily he was accustomed to be at his best. Often during 
that summer he sat down to his work in the morning 
with the wearied, irritable manner of one who had not 
been able to sleep, and there were many days when the 
first hour’s work of dictation proved utterly worthless. 

Mr. Barrington noticed these signs of his employer’s 
abstraction with wonder and curiosity. He could not 
believe that the hard-headed old man could become so 
affected by his nephew’s disgrace. Yet in no other way 
could he account for the increasing hesitation and the 
annoying blunders, unless indeed the vigorous will and 
logical mind were at last beginning to succumb to the 
weakness of old age. 

To Barrington the days were dreary, because during 


The Discovery of a Missing Paper 7 1 


so many of them he could catch no moment alone with 
Myrtice. Hot that she appeared wilfully to avoid him. 
It was more as though she were sublimely unconscious 
of his existence. The doughty secretary grew more 
wary than ever as the summer waned, and on the rare 
occasions when he was able for a few moments to con- 
verse with the object of his infatuation, he concealed his 
growing passion beneath the mask of a dignified and 
gentlemanly demeanor. 

To Myrtice it seemed that the summer would never 
end. The supply of light reading with which she could 
usually occupy many pleasant hours seemed to her the 
most vapid and insipid trash. She could become in- 
terested in no fictitious character, however strongly 
portrayed. The plot of no novel was intricate enough 
to hold her attention; no situation was sufficiently 
dramatic to divert her mind from the consciousness of 
her loneliness. 

Tor hours at a time she would sit in her room looking 
over the water of the lake, watching the dazzling light 
of the afternoon change to the rosy hues of the sunset 
time, watching until the rosiness itself faded away, and 
until the deep blue sky turned to blackness, relieved 
only by the twinkling of the stars. But she would not 
think of the beauty of the shimmering water ; she gave 
no heed to the glory of the sunset; she hardly noted 
the gathering darkness and the glittering stars. Always 
the burden of her thought was for Sherman Hale. How 
was he faring in his prison cell ? Could he, too, catch 
any glimpse of the sunlight and the stars ? Was he 
well ? And why, oh why, did he not write her a word ? 


72 


Sherman Hale 


Why did he not answer the letters which with unvary- 
ing regularity she entrusted twice each week to the will- 
ing Mr. Barrington when he rode to the village post- 
office ? 

There were other things besides her loneliness to 
burden the days for Myrtice Meredith. There was the 
insoluble mystery of the forged signature upon the 
check. She would not believe that Sherman had been 
guilty of the act for which he had been convicted, 
though there were moments when she could account for 
his failure to write only upon the ground of the shame 
of his guilt. But if the deed had not been Sherman’s, 
whose had it been ? And how had the check, if forged 
by another, come into Sherman’s hands ? 

There was also during these days an intolerable sus- 
picion of herself. She lived over and over again in 
memory those moments when she had stolen down stairs 
in the night and had taken from the waste-basket the 
unsigned check which her guardian had thrown away. 
What had she done while she had sat at that desk 
smoothing the crumpled bit of paper with her hand? 
With poignant suffering she remembered the temptation 
which had assailed her. She remembered the strange 
weariness that had overpowered her, when the tempta- 
tion had been overcome, at least as she believed. But 
after that she could not remember. Did she leave the 
check still unsigned, smoothed out upon the desk ? Had 
she unconsciously thrown it again into the waste- 
basket ? Or, in her weariness, when her will power had 
yielded to the exhaustion had she unknowingly signed 
the check herself ? If she had, the action had made no 


The Discovery of a Missing Paper 73 

impression upon her mind which could he reproduced in 
memory. The moments of weariness after the tempta- 
tion were to her all a blank, a hiatus which no effort of 
her aching head could fill up. 

But after all, the greatest burden of those hot, drag- 
ging summer days was the burden of her inability. 
Strive as she might, she could not do anything to help 
Sherman or to solve the mystery. Her efforts to find 
the check had met with no success. The letter to Sher- 
man’s lawyer courteously asking if the check had been 
in evidence at the trial was not even answered. Ignor- 
ant of the perfidy of Mr. Barrington, she could account 
for this neglect of her request only by supposing that 
she had unwittingly infringed upon the dignity of the 
Court of Justice. Perhaps lawyers were bound by legal 
red tape so that they could not answer impertinent 
questions of meddling girls. She did not know how it 
was. At any rate, the answer had not come, and the 
check whose signature she so longed to see and to study 
could not be found. 

Without avail she had hunted for the check among 
her guardian’s papers, stealing into the study in the 
night like a veritable thief. But it was in no pigeon- 
hole or unlocked drawer of the familiar desk. It was 
not within his bank book, though numerous other can- 
celled checks were there. It was not with the papers 
which related to the property of Sherman Hale. It was 
not with the waste papers which had accumulated in 
the barrel in the cellar, transferred thereto from time to 
time from her guardian’s waste-basket. The check was 


74 


Sherman Hale 


apparently nowhere. Reluctantly she began to believe 
that she would never find it. 

On an afternoon in the late days of September she 
was trying vainly to think of some new place for 
search as she sat alone upon the familiar rustic seat near 
the boat landing. So absorbed was she in her thoughts 
that she did not hear approaching foot-steps upon the 
gravel path, and before she was conscious of his pre- 
sence Mr. J. Adams Barrington stood before her with 
bared head. 

“Good afternoon, Miss Meredith,” he said courte- 
ously. “I think you are very wise to choose this 
beautiful spot on a day like this. Isn’t it charming ?” 

“Why, yes, I suppose it is,” she replied hesitatingly, 
“but I am afraid I wasn’t thinking very much about it. 
I was thinking of — something else.” 

“Your thoughts must be very interesting if they can 
make you unconscious of this,” — he waved his arm to- 
wards the sunlit lake fringed with trees whose foliage 
was already touched here and there with the luxuriant 
colors of autumn. “Aren’t such thoughts worth telling 
to someone else ?” 

He sat down by her side as he spoke, but his manner 
was so decorous that she could not take offense. 

“I don’t believe it would do any good to tell them to 
anyone,” she answered. Then with some bitterness she 
added, “They are useless, futile thoughts. They don’t 
get anywhere. They don’t accomplish anything.” 

“Then why think them ?” he queried. 

“Because I can’t help it. Can you stop thinking?” 

“That is the old question our psychology professor 


The Discovery of a Missing Paper 75 


used to ask in college,” he mused. “Can we by the 
force of will make the mind blank ? I was never able to 
answer the question and ‘Old Prof.’ never answered it 
in a way that was perfectly satisfactorily. Perhaps 
some people can stop thinking, but I am sure that others 
cannot. But I am turning your practical question into 
theoretical nonsense. I think I know one way that will 
at least help in your effort to forget useless thoughts.” 

“How is that ?” she inquired politely, but without in- 
terest, as she looked drearily into the water. 

He gazed at her profile long and earnestly before he 
made reply, and had she not been so indifferent to his 
presence she would have noted with alarm the flush that 
mounted to his cheeks. But when he spoke his words 
were guarded both in choice and in tone. 

“Tell your thoughts to an interested friend,” he said. 

“Ah, that's just the difficulty,” she exclaimed, turn- 
ing to him suddenly. “I am not sure that I have a 
friend who is interested in these thoughts.” 

“Why not try me?” he asked, with a supreme effort 
controlling his voice so that the words sounded almost 
impersonal. 

“You? Why, you wouldn’t care. Why should you ? 
You are interested in Greek and Hebrew and Sanskrit. 
Why should the learned secretary of the great scholar, 
Dr. Augustus Camwell, care for the useless, idle 
thoughts of an ignorant girl ? If I could only tell them 
in Hebrew now,” she continued whimsically, “you 
might be interested to hear me speak my thoughts aloud. 
But unfortunately I can think only in English — simple, 
plain, unlearned English.” 


Sherman Hale 


76 

She would have rattled on still more in her efforts to 
lure him from the unwelcome topic he had chosen, but 
he interrupted her. 

“You do me a great wrong,” he protested. “In the 
first place, I am not what you call ‘learned’ though I do 
know a little about the languages that you have men- 
tioned. And besides, if I were learned, I hope I should 
still be human. Miss Meredith, why is it that you never 
seem to remember that I am a human being?” 

She looked at him in wonder as she caught the note 
of passionate appeal which had crept into his tone. He 
had almost forgotten himself, and the face turned to- 
wards her was flushed and eager. She turned her head 
away and answered coldly. 

“I am sure I do not know what you mean. I cer- 
tainly am not aware that I have in anyway failed to 
treat you as a human being.” 

“Ho, you aren’t aware of it. That’s just the trouble. 
To you, I am just your guardian’s secretary, a servant, 
a piece of mechanism by which he works out his won- 
derful books. I might as well be his typewriter for all 
you would care, or his blotting pad. But I am not al- 
ways going to be a private secretary. Sometime I will 
make you recognize that I am a man and not a machine. 
A man, do you hear? A man with rich blood run- 
ning through his veins — a man who can love and hate, a 
man ” 

“Mr. Barrington,” she cried, springing to her feet 
and turning from him. “Stop. I’m sure you can’t 
know what you are saying.” 


The Discovery of a Missing Paper 77 

He was beside her in an instant, his passionate man- 
ner changed to one of humble apology. 

“Miss Meredith, you must not go away like that. I 
beg you not to be hard on me. For a moment I forgot 
myself. But you don’t know how hard it is just to be 
some one else’s amanuensis, when there’s something in 
you that makes you want to do things yourself. And 
your guardian is not always an easy man to work for. 
You know that, don’t you? Forgive me if for once I 
have let my feelings get the best of me, and I’ll promise 
not to do so again.” 

His passionate outburst and his effort to control it had 
made their impress upon his face. They had not en- 
nobled the face, for passion cannot ennoble, but in a 
certain way they had strengthened it. Myrtice looked 
at him with new interest. He seemed more manly than 
she had supposed he could ever appear. And when he 
spoke of the hardships of being only her guardian’s 
amanuensis, her sympathy quickly responded. The 
haughty coldness left her face, and she held out her 
hand to him in frank kindness as she said, 

“I think you need not apologize, Mr. Barrington. 
Perhaps I was too quick to take offense. I — I am sorry 
for you, and I’m sure that sometime you’ll show not 
only me but all the world that you can be more than 
anyone’s amanuensis.” 

He grasped her hand fervently and bowed low over 
it, trembling from head to foot. She completely mis- 
understood his emotion. Thinking to relieve him of his 
embarrassment, as she withdrew her hand she changed 
the subject abruptly. 


Sherman Hale 


78 

“Do you think Uncle Camwell seems quite well 
lately?” she inquired, as they began to walk up the 
path towards the house. 

“Well enough, I think,” he replied, and his tone was 
quite unemotional, so completely had he mastered him- 
self. “But to tell the truth, sometimes of late he has 
been subject to unusual fits of abstraction.” 

“Yes,” she acquiesced, “I have noticed it at the 
table, at breakfast particularly. I don’t believe he 
sleeps well at night. I am going to try to get him to 
see a physician.” 

“I’m afraid you won’t be able to make him do it. 
He doesn’t seem to like doctors very well.” 

“I know,” she laughed. “He believes they are all 
quacks, trying to get rich by preying upon other peo- 
ple’s misfortunes. But at any rate, when we get back 
to Boston I shall try to get him to see Dr. Markham. 
Meanwhile you mustn’t let him work too hard, will 
you?” 

“7 let him work? How can I help it?” 

“I’m sure I don’t know,” she admitted, and they 
were both smiling at the thought when they stepped 
upon the veranda where the Professor sat reading a 
ponderous archaeological treatise. 

The reader’s attention was attracted by the noise of 
their footsteps, and he looked up in time to catch their 
smiles of mutual sympathy. “Humph!” he muttered 
to himself. “These two are getting to understand each 
other. Well, why not? Why not, indeed? Mr. Bar- 
rington is the most learned young man I have met for 
a generation. Properly handled, he will have a future. 


The Discovery of a Missing Paper 79 


He would be a better match for her than my rattle- 
brained scamp of a nephew, anyway.” 

With a thoughtful frown the Professor resumed his 
reading. 

Late that night Mr. J. Adams Barrington walked in 
the garden in ecstatic remembrance of the afternoon by 
the lakeside. “She is going to like me,” he told the 
trees and the shrubs, “and by and by, if I am only 
careful, when she forgets that jail bird, she’ll be mine, 
mine, mine.” 

At nearly the same late hour on that September night, 
Myrtice, with the incident of the afternoon’s conversa- 
tion with Barrington already forgotten, was descending 
the hall stairs, bent upon one more search for the miss- 
ing check. As she noiselessly entered the open door of 
the study, she was astonished to discover her guardian 
there. The old man, clad only in his night robe, was 
walking slowly towards his desk, muttering to himself. 

“He’s asleep.” she. muttered beneath her breath. 
“He’s walking in his sleep.” 

Fascinated but half frightened she watched him in 
the dim light which came from the hall. He went to 
his desk, opened a drawer, and took from it a bunch of 
keys. With bated breath she saw him select a key and 
unlock the one drawer of the desk which she had never 
been able to open. Apparently the drawer was nearly 
empty. The groping hand of the sleeping man found 
in it but a single paper. He removed the paper and 
spread it upon the blotting pad, smoothing it with his 
aged, trembling fingers, sighing the while and muttering 
incoherently. 


8o 


Sherman Hale 


After a time he replaced the paper in the drawer, 
carefully locked it, returned the bunch of keys to their 
accustomed resting place, and rising slowly from the 
chair walked with unseeing eyes past the trembling girl, 
out into the hall, and upstairs to his room. 

Myrtice watched until she was sure he was safely in 
bed. Then with feverish haste she turned on the light 
and ran to the desk. It was the work of but a moment 
to find the key which fitted the locked drawer. A 
moment more, and there lay beneath her eager fingers 
the cancelled check. With dilating eyes which caused 
the words to dance weirdly, she read, 

“Pay to Sherman Hale five hundred dollars.” And 
the signature was the name, “Augustus Camwell.” 


CHAPTER IX 


THE UNMAKING OE A MAN 

The officers and instructors of the Reformatory, num- 
bering in all about seventy men, are divided by the 
prisoners into two classes, — the “old soaks” and the 
“soft snaps.” 

The former class consists of those officers whose 
theory of government is to punish first and to investi- 
gate afterwards. To the men of this class all prisoners 
are alike dishonorable and treacherous. These trust no 
one ; they suspect every one ; they punish indis- 
criminately. 

The “soft snaps” are those officers who, in spite of 
their harsh experiences, have still left within them some 
drops of the milk of human kindness. To these the 
prisoners are individuals. By some of the sincere 
Christian men of this class the prisoners are even sup- 
posed to be possessed of souls, capable of salvation. 
Too often, however, the kindly disposition of these truly 
Christian officers is untempered by the soundness of a 
keen, critical judgment of men. They are wont to 
trust too indiscriminately, and their kindness is con- 
stantly abused by those unregenerate prisoners who will 
not scruple to “work” anybody for their own personal 
preferment. Thus the very kindness of well-disposed 
officers militates against the discipline of the prison, and 


82 


Sherman Hale 


retrenches the “old soaks” in their opinion that the 
prisoners all deserve more punishment than can law- 
fully be inflicted upon them. 

Officer Marden, who had charge of Sherman Hale’s 
line, was one of the sternest and most cruel of the “old 
soaks.” His long experience as a punitive officer had 
hardened his heart. He had begun service with the 
earnest desire to treat the prisoner kindly and to do him 
good. But the first boy he had trusted had robbed him 
of his watch. Another had carried on a profitable and 
nefarious trade in contraband tobacco right under his 
unsuspecting nose. A third had knocked him down 
with a piece of iron pipe in an unsuccessful attempt to 
escape. While the last boy in whom he had reposed con- 
fidence, immediately upon the completion of his Refor- 
matory sentence, had murdered a man in cold blood and 
had been executed in the State Prison at Charlestown. 

When Officer Marden read the inhuman details of 
that atrocious murder, he swore a deep oath that he 
would never trust another prisoner, and for fifteen years 
he had kept his oath inviolate. 

A vigorous, hardy giant was Officer Marden, six feet 
three inches in height, broad shouldered, strong mus- 
cled. His hard blue eyes were ever alert for the dis- 
covery of mischief ; his heavy, brawny hand was quick 
to strike; the loaded revolver in his hip pocket was 
ready for instant use. 

For a long time Sherman Hale endured the sus- 
picious scrutiny of this hard man with no open outbreak. 
The trouble came after he had been in prison over four 
months, and was nearly ready for his promotion to the 


The Unmaking of a Man 83 


First Grade, when he would come under the charge of 
a more kindly disposed officer. It happened this way. 
The line had marched to the dining room and silently 
partaken of the morning meal of mush and milk. As 
the gong sounded for the men to rise from the table 
and form in their lines, Arthur Brown tried to pass a 
book to his right hand neighbor. He had received the 
book an instant before from Bill Haley, hut the first 
passage of the hook had been undetected. The second 
was not so successful. “Give me that book,” Officer 
Marden demanded, springing to the boy’s side and 
grasping him roughly by his coat collar. With a white 
face the boy tremblingly obeyed. The book was one of 
the Hew Testaments with which every cell is provided. 
As the officer took it and opened it there met his 
astonished gaze a square of B. L. chewing tobacco, 
nicely fitted into a hole which had been mortised in the 
leaves of the book by means of a sharp knife. 

“So ho!” the officer said, a gleam of triumph glitter- 
ing in his eye. “Trading in the stuff, are you? Well, 
to the ‘sick room’ with you, my boy.” 

He roughly grasped the boy's arm as he spoke and 
yanked him from the forming line so forcefully that the 
prisoner fell headlong to the hard stone floor. The 
officer was advancing to lift the boy, while two other 
officers, hearing the commotion, were hastily approach- 
ing, when in the breathless stillness of the dining room 
there rang out a clear, bold denunciation. 

“You are a damned cowardly brute.” 

The speaker was Sherman Hale. He stood a little in 
advance of the line of the prisoners, his arms folded 


Sherman Hale 


84 

across his chest, his body erect, his clear blue eyes flash- 
ing angrily. 

For an instant the three officers stood still, gaping in 
surprise. Then, recovering himself, Officer Marden, 
with doubled fist, made a blind, angry lunge at his 
accuser. Sherman was too quick for him. Stepping 
swiftly aside he avoided the blow, and before the giant 
officer could recover his equilibrium, he shot out his 
right arm and landed a hard hit square on the officer’s 
jaw. The big man tottered backwards and sank limply 
into one of the dining chairs, while a subdued murmur 
of applause rose from the throats of a thousand pris- 
oners, a murmur that resembled the sullen roar of caged 
and cowed beasts at the scent of human blood. 

It was all over in an instant. With a cruel blow upon 
the head from a billy Sherman was felled to the floor. 
Two officers stood guard over him while the remaining 
officers in the room, startled by the noise of that sullen 
murmur of applause, formed their lines quickly and 
marched them to the workshop, each with a threatening 
revolver gleaming in his hand. 

When Sherman Hale came to himself — how much 
later he could not tell — he found he was lying upon a 
cot bed in a room that was almost totally dark. He 
tried to move, but the effort made him conscious of a 
racking pain in his head. Wearily he lifted his hand, 
and found a lump upon the back of his head as large as 
his doubled fist. Then slowly he recollected. He re- 
membered the incident of the dining room, and after 
awhile he knew that he must have been felled to the 
floor with an officer’s billy. The effort to remember 



“m ARDEN * * * 
Sherman Hale. 


MADE AN ANGRY LUNGE AT HIS ACCUSER.” 

Page 84 












































































































































The Unmaking of a Man 85 

increased the pain in his head, however, and he closed 
his eyes and tried to forget. 

After a time, minutes or hours he could not tell, he 
again opened his eyes. This time he spoke aloud, 
thinking that some of the attendants might be in the 
darkened room with him. His voice echoed back to him 
from the bare stone walls. 

He rose with great difficulty and groped about the 
room on a journey of discovery. He was in a sort of a 
dungeon, he decided ; the walls were rough, unfinished 
granite. The only entrance to the room seemed to be 
by a small door of thick iron plating. At the bottom of 
the door was a narrow aperature through which he 
could thrust the fingers of his hand. Through this nar- 
row crack entered the only light which was allowed to 
penetrate the cell of solitary confinement. 

In one corner of the dungeon Sherman, much to his 
relief, discovered a rude tin sink supplied with a faucet. 
He laved his hands and bathed his aching head in the 
cooling water, and felt much refreshed. 

His eyes becoming accustomed to the dim light, he 
discovered without the use of the sense of touch that the 
dungeon was about the size of his former cell in the 
east wing, and that it contained no furniture at all 
except the narrow cot bed. The bed itself was provided 
only with a hard straw mattress and one coarse blanket. 
There were no pillows or sheets, and the bed had no 
springs. 

Because he had nothing else to do, he threw himself 
down upon the comfortless bed and tried to sleep, but 
his mind would not yield to his will. He thought back 


86 


Sherman Hale 


to his old college days. How far away they seemed! 
How much a part of someone else’s life instead of his 
own ! Was he the man who recklessly bet money upon 
a game of ball ? Was he the man who passed such a 
wonderful evening on the lake with his betrothed ? 

Myrtice ! Why did she not write to him ? Why had 
she not sent him some word to show that she appre- 
ciated his sacrifices, and that she loved him for it? 
This silence was unlike her. What did it mean ? Had 
his uncle cowed her into unwilling submission? Or. 
perhaps, had he himself misjudged her? Was it pos- 
sible that someone else had forged that signature after 
all, and that she, not having done it herself, could think 
that he was guilty? Did her silence mean that she 
could have no communication with one who she thought 
was a criminal ? 

But if she had not done it, who had ? Ah, that was 
the insoluble puzzle. He wearied his aching head try- 
ing to solve the problem, and after awhile again he 
slept. 

When he awoke this time even the dim light in his 
dungeon had gone. The blackness about him he could 
almost feel. It pressed upon him. It stifled him. 
The intolerable stillness oppressed his spirits. He 
spoke aloud, but again the only reply which came to 
him was the echo of his voice from the bare stone walls. 
In an agony of depression he shouted. The echo almost 
deafened him, but there was no other reply. 

By and by, he began to be conscious of hunger. He 
knew by the blackness that it must be night, and he had 
eaten nothing since his frugal morning meal. Hoping 


The Unmaking of a Man 87 


to stay his hunger by a draught of water he arose and 
felt his way to the sink, and at last, with groping hand, 
found the faucet. The water was warm and distasteful. 
[Nevertheless he drank of it copiously, and feeling some- 
what benefited he groped his way back to his bed. 

For a very eternity he lay there fighting against the 
depression of the enveloping blackness and the over- 
whelming stillness. The growing pangs of his hunger 
would have been enough to keep him from sleep even 
though he could have conquered the dread of the dark- 
ness and the silence which was gripping his nerves. 

After what seemed to him a well-nigh interminable 
time he was rejoiced to discover that the blackness began 
to diminish. Another day was dawning. He could 
soon discern the outline of his hand when he held it 
near his eyes, and by and by he could distinguish the 
iron door of his cell from the rough stone of the granite 
walls. He laughed with boyish glee at this sign of re- 
turning life, and he went almost gaily to the sink to 
wash himself and to drink again of the distasteful 
water. Before he went back to his couch this time he 
took off his suspenders and tied them tightly around 
his waist, decreasing by pressure the gnawing pains of 
the hunger that would not let him rest. 

It was hours afterward, hours spent in alternate 
pacing of the floor, and weary restlessness upon the bed, 
before relief came to him from the outside. It must 
have been about noon of the second day — though he had 
no means of determining time — when his solitude was 
penetrated by the noise of approaching heavy footsteps. 
The footsteps stopped at his door. A heavy rap from 


88 


Sherman Hale 


some metallic substance reverberated through the 
dungeon. 

“Are you all right V 7 a gruff voice demanded; but the 
voice, gruff and coarse as it was, sounded like music to 
the famished ears of the lonely man. 

“Fm all right so far,” Sherman replied, “but open 
up and let me out. I can’t stand this much longer.” 

A harsh laugh was his only reply. Something was 
thrust through the aperture beneath the door, and the 
heavy footsteps passed on. Sherman counted them until 
he could hear them no longer. 

The thing left beneath the door was a single thin 
slice of coarse Graham bread. The strong man nearly 
cried when he discovered its diminutive size. He de- 
termined that he would eat it very slowly, chewing each 
mouthful as long as possible. But the first taste of the 
bread aroused his hunger to an uncontrollable degree 
and he gulped down the remainder of the slice as 
greedily as a hog would feed at its trough. 

Thus ended the first day of solitary confinement in 
what the prisoners appropriately called the “sick room,” 
For thirteen days thereafter Sherman Hale listened for 
the coming footsteps with the diurnal single slice of 
bread. For thirteen nights he watched feverishly for 
the coming of the dim light to drive away the horrors of 
the dread blackness. Each day his voice in reply to the 
officer’s question grew weaker. Each night his mind be- 
came more uncontrolled. 

The last three days and nights he passed in a con- 
dition which closely resembled that feverish state popu- 
larly described as “out of one’s head.” During these 


The Unmaking of a Man 89 


days lie lost all control of his thoughts. Some of the 
time was passed in feverish dreams in which he was now 
trying to cheer his baseball nine to victory, but in which 
again he was cringing before a uniformed prison official 
who grotesquely resembled Officer Marden. 

On the last day of all, the reply to the officer’s daily 
question was an incoherent mutter of unintelligible 
words. Hearing this sound, the officer hastened to re- 
port to the Deputy, and half an hour later the Deputy 
Superintendent himself unlocked the door of the 
dungeon. 

A gaunt figure half lifted itself from the bed to glare 
at the intruders with wild and blood-shot eyes. When 
the sunken eyes had become enough accustomed to the 
unusual light to recognize the dreaded uniform of the 
prison official, the emaciated figure uttered a shriek of 
terror. Then painfully rising to his feet, with weak, 
tottering steps, he approached the officers, and falling at 
their feet he grovelled on the floor, mumbling piteous 
words of abject pleading. 


CHAPTER X. 


“chubby” NICHOLS 

According to his invariable custom, Professor Cam- 
well on the very first day of October removed his family 
and archaeological treatise from his summer home in 
the Western Massachusetts hills to his winter home on 
Beacon Street in Boston. The change was agreeable 
both to his ward and to his secretary; to Myrtice be- 
cause she longed for the opportunity to subject the 
signature upon the recovered check to expert scrutiny; 
and to Barrington because he hoped that in the more 
varied and active life of the city he could pass pleas- 
urably certain hours of leisure which, when deprived of 
the company of Myrtice, hung most heavily upon his 
hands in the rural village. 

The secretary was not disappointed. The attractions 
of theater and billiard hall proved most alluring to him. 
But he did not patronize the saloon, nor did he yield to 
the seductions of any other form of youthful vice. 

A strange mixture was in the nature of this Mr. J. 
Adams Barrington, yet perhaps no stranger than the 
composite of good and bad qualities which make up 
the personalities of most of one’s friends and acquaint- 
ances, and which perhaps all have adequate explanation 
in the impulses and passions, the self-denials and the 
self-indulgences of their forbears. Barrington could 


“Chubby” Nichols 91 

become, as Professor Camwell had asserted, a notable 
scholar, perhaps an eminent preacher, in the right en- 
vironment. Also in spite of his education and his 
scholarly attainments, he could become in other environ- 
ments a notorious scamp. 

Though the secretary found at once his anticipated 
pleasures in the city, for awhile the removal from the 
country did not give to Myrtice her desired end. In the 
first place, she was ill. Por nearly a month she was 
obliged to keep closely indoors, nursing a suddenly 
contracted and very severe cold. When she became 
convalescent, she discovered that in the city her actions 
were watched by her guardian even more closely than 
they had been in their country home. 

The business cards of several handwriting experts 
were neatly copied from the newspapers into her note 
book, but for nearly two weeks all her efforts to call 
upon any one of them were frustrated by Professor 
Camwell. Either he wished her to do something for 
him when she had set her heart upon going out alone, 
or else he was sure that the weather was unsuitable and 
requested her to stay indoors. But at last, during the 
very first days of November, the opportunity came, and 
from a most unexpected source. 

With her uncle she was dining one night at the home 
of a Harvard Professor, and among the guests Myrtice 
was delighted to recognize Sherman Hale’s most inti- 
mate college chum, “ Chubby” Nichols. By good for- 
tune, Mr. Nichols was the one appointed by the hostess 
to take her out to dinner. Before the soup had been 
removed, “ Chubby” recalled that he had met her at the 


92 


Sherman Hale 


famous Harvard- Yale football game the year before. 
With the fish course he began entertaining her with a 
racy account of his summer’s travel. 

The dinner was over, and the men had returned to 
the drawing room when Mr. Nichols saw her again and 
led her to a retired nook in the library. 

“This is my uncle’s house, you know,” he explained, 
“and I know the ins and outs like a book. Perhaps 
you didn’t know, though. But how else did you suppose 
that a rattle-brained scamp like me would be dining at 
Professor White’s ? Yes, he’s my uncle, sure enough. I 
don’t look it, do I ?” 

He laughed in a hearty boyish way which was all his 
own. It was the old “Chubby” Nichols laugh which 
had won his way into the hearts of so many of his 
college mates. 

“Now,” he continued, seating himself by her side on 
the divan, “I want you tell me about Sherman. You 
see I went abroad the day after Commencement, and I 
never heard a word about it until last night at the Club. 
What’s it all about, anyway?” 

At this sudden mention of Sherman’s name Myrtice 
turned her head away quickly and for a moment she 
could make no reply. 

“Pardon me, Miss Meredith,” he pleaded gently. 
“Not a word if it is too painful for you. I’m not 
curious, you know. Only” — his voice choked a little — 
“I was his friend, and I know there’s been some awful 
mistake somewhere. If a rattled pate like mine could 
be of any use, I didn’t know but what I might help to 
clear things up.” 


“Chubby” Nichols 93 

She turned to him impulsively and gave him her 
hand. “Thank you,” she said, her eyes wet with un- 
shed tears. “I know you are his friend, and IT1 tell 
you all I know.” 

So, quietly, in the dimly lighted library, with the chat- 
ter and laughter of the guests wafted in to them from 
the drawing room, she told the story of Sherman’s mis- 
fortune. He interrupted her only occasionally to ask 
a pertinent question, but his deep blue eyes never left 
her face as she continued her narrative. 

When at last she came to the discovery of the missing 
check in her guardian’s drawer, he grasped her hand in 
his eagerness and asked hoarsely, “Can you tell where 
that check is now?” 

“It’s in my dress,” she replied. 

“But how in heaven’s name did you dare ‘swipe’ it ? 
Won’t the old man discover it is gone and smell a rat ?” 

“I made an imitation,” she said demurely. “I spent 
quite a lot of time upon it and after I was through I 
could hardly tell it myself from the real one. I put the 
imitation back in his drawer.” 

“But how could you do it ? How could you imitate 
the handwriting?” 

“I have studied that art just for fun. You see I 
used to do lots of writing for Uncle Camwell before he 
engaged Mr. Barrington, and in dull moments, while I 
was waiting for his next dictation, I used to amuse my- 
self copying his signature. I can do his name so I don’t 
believe anybody could tell the difference.” 

“I see,” he murmured. Then, with apparent irrelev- 
ance, he added, “Who is this Mr. Barrington?” 


94 


Sherman Hale 


u Uncle Camwell’s secretary. Uncle Camwell is 
writing a book, you know, and Mr. Barrington is help- 
ing him.” 

“How long has he been there ?” 

“I think he came about the middle of May.” 

“Perhaps he, too, learned to copy your guardian’s 
signature.” 

“Why, what do mean? You don’t mean that Mr. 
Barrington ” 

“I don’t know as I mean anything,” he admitted. 
“Do you like this Barrington?” 

“Why, I don’t know as I ever thought much about 
him. Yes, in a way I like him, I suppose. I think he 
is trying hard to get along.” 

“Does he like you?” 

“I don’t know. Pie never told me.” She laughed 
nervously. “What makes you question me that way? 
What are you thinking about? 

“About your guardian’s secretary,” he answered, 
smiling at her, “and perhaps a little about you and 
Sherman Hale.” 

“But I don’t think you ought to suspect Mr. Barring- 
ton. I don’t see why he should want to do such a 
thing, nor how he could have done it even if he had 
wanted to. The check, you know, Sherman found in 
his room.” 

“I remember that is what you said.” 

“I ought to tell you something else,” she said looking 
up into his sober face, her own wearing a most troubled 
expression. “Before I let you suspect anyone else I 


“Chubby” Nichols 


95 


ought to tell you that — maybe — I — did — it — myself.” 

“You!” he exclaimed. “How?” 

Hesitatingly she told him of her visit to the study 
that night, and of her temptation, of the weakness that 
had overtaken her, and of the strange lapse in her 
memory. 

“And you think you might have done it in a state 
of mental aberration ?” he asked when she had finished. 
“Well, I am sure you might as well disabuse your mind 
of that fancy. I don’t believe it could be done that 
way.” 

She was more relieved by his reassurance than she 
could express. Yet still she persisted. 

“But I had the forgery of the check in my mind, you 
know. Sherman and I had been talking about it that 
very night. I had told him how easily I could copy 
TJncle Camwell’s signature, and I had laughingly 
offered to do it for him.” 

“You told Sherman that?” he ejaculated. 

“Yes. Why?” 

“Why, that is just what I’ve been looking for in all 
your talk — a motive to account for Sherman’s pleading 
guilty. How I have it.” 

“How? I don’t understand.” 

“Miss Meredith,” his voice was very gentle, more so 
than any of his college associates would have believed 
possible for “Chubby” Hichols. “Perhaps it is best for 
you not to know just what I mean, if you haven’t 
guessed for yourself. I may be wrong anyway. I 
would rather not tell you, if you will trust me. Will 
you ?” 


Sherman Hale 


96 

“Of course, I will,” she said simply. “You are his 
friend.” 

“Will you trust me with that check? I know a man 
who is a dabster of a chap at the hand-writing business. 
Give it to me and in a day or two I’ll call and tell you 
what he says about it.” 

As he took the bit of paper from her willing hand, he 
held the hand for a moment in his own. “You won’t 
worry,” he said, looking into her eyes. “I think it is 
coming out all right. How I’m going to take you back 
to your guardian, and day after to-morrow I will call 
and tell you what my friend says about this signature.” 

The next day “Chubby” Hichols took the early after- 
noon train to Concord. It was Sunday, and Sunday is 
the special visiting day at the Reformatory. He found 
the octagonal guard-room full of visitors. Fathers 
were there who had come from a great distance to spend 
an hour or two with their wayward sons. Widowed 
mothers to whom the railroad journey of a hundred 
miles or more meant the expenditure of the savings of 
a month. Sisters were there waiting to see their 
brothers, and to give them some little luxury to hasten 
the passing of the long hours in the lonely cells. Wives 
were there, some of them with little children on their 
knees, and the little ones would not understand why 
mamma should cry, nor why papa would not go back 
home with them. 

As man after man was brought by the officers to the 
guard-room to greet his waiting mother or sister or wife, 
the eyes of the careless, gay college man filled with 
tears. And when the little groups with wet eyes settled 


“Chubby” Nichols 


97 


down on the hard settees to talk together for only one 
swiftly passing hour, he gave vent to his feelings in a 
single ejaculation. “God!” 

It was not profanity. It was more like a protest to 
the God of love who could allow such suffering to come 
upon the innocent for the sins of the guilty. Yet, had 
“Chubby” Hichols only thought deeply enough he 
would have discerned that love was the cause of the 
suffering. So long as human beings love each other, so 
long must the innocent suffer with the guilty, so long 
must Gethsemane and Calvary have their endless repe- 
titions. And who would care to live in this world were 
it not for the love that must suffer? 

It was “Chubby’s” turn to prefer his request at last. 

“Sherman Hale!” The big turnkey repeated the 
name vaguely as he wrote it on a card. He showed 
“Chubby” to a seat and gave the card to a “runner.” 
When the “runner” returned Mr. Hichols was frying 
in vain to solve the relationship between the pure, 
sweet-faced girl who near him sat hand in hand with a 
hard-looking man in prison garb. “Hot his sister,” he 
said beneath his breath. “She can’t be with that pure 
face. And if it’s his wife or his sweetheart, it’s a 
damned shame.” 

“The turnkey wants to see you,” the “runner” in- 
terrupted “Chubby’s” thoughts. Mr. Hichols ap- 
proached the desk of the great man nonchalantly. 

“You can’t see Sherman Hale,” that worthy said 
without looking up from the Sunday paper he was 
reading. “He is locked up.” 

“Locked up !” “Chubby” repeated in perplexity. “I 


Sherman Hale 


98 

supposed he was. All your guests here seem to be 
locked up. But I notice you are letting others out to 
see their friends this afternoon. Why not Hale ?” 

The big officer looked at him pityingly from over the 
paper. 

“I mean he is locked in solitary,” he explained. 
“Been up to mischief.” 

“The devil he has ! Well, get him out of the solitary 
then.” 

“Can’t. Against the rules.” 

“Look here, you big duffer. Do you know that I 
have come clear from ” 

“I don’t care where you have come from. You can’t 
see Sherman Hale, you nor nobody else. Here comes 
the Deputy. Talk to him if you want to grumble.” 

The Deputy Superintendent in his neat uniform was 
approaching. He was a kindly man, though his duties 
rendered him seemingly harsh and stern. “I am sorry,” 
he said sympathetically when Mr. Hichols had made his 
complaint. “But we could not break the rules. Your 
friend has violated the discipline of the prison and he 
must suffer the consequences.” 

“What has he done?” 

“It’s a little irregular, but perhaps I can tell you. 
Come with me.” 

The Deputy led him out of the guard-room to the 
office >of the clerk. After consulting a huge book he 
turned to the waiting young man. “I thought I remem- 
bered it correctly. He assaulted an officer who was cor- 
recting a boy for misbehavior. It is a very grievous 
offense, and here we have to treat it somewhat harshly.” 


“Chubby” Nichols 


99 


“That's just like him — fighting for some one else,” 
exclaimed “Chubby.” “Good for Sherman. But I 
can’t see him really? There’s no way you can break 
the rules this once ?” 

“I’m sorry to say there is no way,” the Deputy said, 
as he opened the door for “Chubby” to pass out. 


CHAPTER XT 


WEAKNESS AND DEGRADATION 

Eor some time after his release from the “sick room” 
Sherman Hale was unconscious of passing events. Was 
it for hours or days ? He did not know, nor did he feel 
enough interested in the matter to make inquiry. 

When at length he came to the full possession of his 
faculties he found that he was lying upon a clean cot 
bed in a long narrow room. The stone floor of the 
room attracted his attention first, reminding him pain- 
fully of the floor of the hated cell of his solitary con- 
finement. After awhile he discovered that this room 
was large, however — large, light, and airy, and that 
there were other cot beds in it besides his own. He 
knew then that he must be in the hospital, and the feel- 
ing of the comfortable bed affecting him drowsily, he 
turned over and went to sleep. 

It was dark when he awakened. A man in the uni- 
form of a prison officer was sitting at a desk near his 
bed, reading a yellow-covered book by the light of a 
single shaded burner. Sherman was conscious that he 
was hungry. 

“Hey, officer.” He tried to shout the words but was 
surprised to find that he was able to speak scarcely 
above a whisper. The officer heard him, however, and 
came to his bedside. 


Weakness and Degradation 101 


“So you’ve come round at last, have you?” he said 
gruffly but not unkindly. “You made a pretty mess of 
things, didn’t you? Why don’t you behave yourself 
and keep out of trouble ? You look as though you were 
old enough to know better.” 

“Never mind the preaching,” Sherman protested in 
his weak, thin voice. “I’m hungry. Can’t I have 
something to eat?” 

“Doc. said I could give you this when you woke up.” 
The officer turned to the table by the bedside and 
handed Sherman a bowl of weak gruel. He drank it 
eagerly and smacked his lips. He was about to speak 
to the officer again when his attention was arrested by a 
voice from the cot next to his own. 

“Water, water,” the voice was pleading. 

“Who’s that?” Sherman asked with interest when 
the officer had returned from satisfying the patient’s 
needs. 

“Name’s Brown. He was locked up the same time 
you was.” 

“God! Did they give that boy a dose like mine? 
Why, he didn’t do anything. It was that jail bird next 
him who was passing the tobacco.” 

Officer Staples shrugged his shoulders indifferently 
and returned to his yellow-covered book. 

The vigorous constitution of the college athlete re- 
sponded quickly to the somewhat rough but really skil- 
ful treatment of the Reformatory’s physician. On the 
second day after his return to consciousness he was able 
to be dressed and to eat his full of the nourishing food 
that was furnished him. 


102 


Sherman Hale 


Arthur Brown did not recover so rapidly. On the 
fourth day of Sherman’s convalescence the boy was 
still in bed, partaking only sparingly of the weak gruel 
and the beef tea. The lad was full of remorse for the 
trouble into which he insisted he had drawn Sherman, 
but his gratitude and admiration for his champion knew 
no bounds. 

“Gee, but you did give it to him good,” he declared 
for the fortieth time as Sherman sat by his bedside 
after the doctor’s morning call. “And to think that 
you did it for me.” 

“I guess you’d better chuck that,” Sherman replied. 
“I gave him one because he is a brute, and I’m only 
sorry that I didn’t put him out for good.” 

“Are you going to try it again when you get at him ?” 
the boy inquired eagerly. 

But Sherman shook his head and in spite of himself 
he trembled. He was no longer the fearless youth who 
could tackle the heaviest football player without 
trepidation. 

“I suppose it’s the ‘red suit’ for us now, kid,” he 
said, by way of changing the subject. 

“Yes, and it’s hell the boys say.” 

“Hell! It’s all hell. Everything is hell. What’s 
the difference whether it’s the red suit or the black — it’s 
hell anyway.” 

“Sh — Here comes the ‘Chap.’ ” 

Chaplain Burtt was a man who had seen over sixty 
years of life, and nearly forty of them had been given to 
the service of his fellow men and of his Master in the 
profession of the ministry. He had served as pastor of 


Weakness and Degradation 103 


several parishes before his appointment to the Keforma- 
tory. But for the past ten years his parish had con- 
sisted of a thousand hoys and men who lived and suf- 
fered in confinement. 

A unique parish, indeed, was this, composed en- 
tirely of convicted criminals. But Chaplain Burtt 
had found within the prison walls the same variations 
of human nature which he had found in his parishes 
outside. Without as well as within had he found the 
Weak and the wicked, the mean and the petty; and 
within as well as without had he found those who were 
striving as best they could to attain their own ideals of 
righteousness and of honor. Perhaps the average 
prisoner’s ideal was a little lower than that of the 
average parishioner outside, hut according to the chap- 
lain’s faith, a just God would judge not in accordance 
with the height of the ideal, which is the product of 
environment, but in accordance with the effort for attain- 
ment, which is the product of the human will. 

In the prison as well as outside this earnest servant 
of God had met with many disappointments. The 
friend whom he had trusted often proved himself frail. 
Perhaps the disappointments were the more frequent 
within the prison walls, for here human nature was at 
its weakest. Here there were boys who had never had 
a chance in life, and here there were men who had reck- 
lessly thrown away their chances. But though again 
and again his faith in particular men had been cruelly 
abused, the chaplain’s faith in human nature in the 
large never faltered. From experiences the most bitter 
and heart sickening, he would emerge unshaken in his 


104 


Sherman Hale 


belief that God was in His world, aye, and that some- 
thing of God was in every man in the world, even in 
those men who dwelt behind iron bars. 

The Chaplain approached the bedside of Arthur 
Brown with his customary quick, elastic step. A cheery 
smile illumined his kindly face, as he gave the lad his 
old and wrinkled hand. 

“Well, well, and how is it this morning?” he asked. 
“Feeling better?” 

“Yes, sir, a good deal better,” the boy replied. 

“But he doesn’t want to go into the ‘red suit/ ” Sher- 
man interpolated, watching the genial chaplain curi- 
ously, and mentally comparing him with his own 
austere uncle. 

“Well, nobody likes to do that,” the chaplain admitted 
with a smile, stroking his thin white side-whiskers with 
a characteristic gesture. “But if boys don’t want the 
red suit, they would better behave, wouldn’t they ?” 

“Yes, sir,” assented Arthur meekly. 

“But the boy didn’t do anything that counts,” inter- 
jected Sherman hotly. “What’s passing a bit of tobacco 
anyway ? That isn’t a crime, is it ? Hell ! I beg your 
pardon, sir, but there’s no justice in this place. There’s 
no justice in the world,” he added bitterly. 

The little chaplain’s head came only to the shoulder 
of the stalwart ex-football player, but he reached up his 
hand and kindly patted the younger man’s flushed cheek. 

“I’m afraid, my boy,” he said gently, “that you have 
had a rough experience, and it has naturally made you a 
little sore. My dear sir, have you carried the matter to 
the heavenly Father in prayer ?” 


Weakness and Degradation 105 


“The heavenly Father!” sneered Sherman, hut when 
he saw the hurt look come into the old man’s face he 
quickly changed his tone. “I beg your pardon again, 
sir, but I must confess that I have come to disbelieve in 
the God to whom you pray. If there be a God, He 
does not seem to care for the people in this world. Here 
everything is at sixes and sevens, and every man gets 
what’s coming to him.” 

“Gently, gently, my boy,” expostulated the chaplain. 
“I pray that some time you may see things differently. 
And remember, my friend, if I can ever be of any help 
to you, I am very anxious to be of service.” 

“I am sure of that, sir. Perhaps if all professed 
Christians were like you ” 

“Thank you, thank you,” interrupted the good man 
hurriedly, as he shook Sherman’s hand, and rushed away 
to the next cot. 

On the following day Sherman was introduced to the 
“red suit.” This is the uniform of degradation adopted 
by the reformative policy of the Commonwealth of 
Massachusetts. The entire suit is of bright red. Those 
who are compelled to wear it as a mark of punishment 
are isolated from their companions in a part of the 
prison devoted to their exclusive use. They do not go 
to the common dining hall, but are served their rations 
in their cells. They are denied the weekly hour of 
recreation on Saturday afternoons in the yard. They 
have no exercise at all. They are allowed to receive or 
to write no communications to their friends outside the 
prison. They work together caning chairs in a room 
adjoining their cells. The only time they are ever seen 


io6 


Sherman Hale 


by their fellow prisoners is on Sunday morning. After 
all the other prisoners have filed into the chapel, the red 
suit men are marched into their seats in the rear. They 
are of especial interest to the visitors in the gallery, and 
there is always a craning of necks to see these 
men in their glaring degradation. And this treatment 
of men who have been overtaken in a fault is supposed 
to be reformative ! 

The period of service in the red suit is limited as a 
rule to one month. But this month of degradation wipes 
the slate clean of all the months of good conduct which 
may have preceded it. For instance, a prisoner having 
served nearly ten months of perfect behavior — and being 
thus on the very eve of his release on parole, should he 
commit an offense against prison discipline punishable 
by degradation to the red suit, would be obliged to begin 
his term of imprisonment all over again. It is this set 
back, and the consequent sense of the uselessness of 
trying to behave which makes the red suit doubly trying 
to men and boys of sensitive natures and of well mean- 
ing dispositions. 

Sherman Hale had not sufficiently recovered from 
the severe treatment of the solitary confinement to accept 
this new punishment with equanimity. The sense of 
the utter uselessness of life well-nigh overwhelmed him. 
He did not need the enforcement of silence which is the 
rule of the place, for his bitter thoughts made him taci- 
turn and surly. His cynicism was in danger of being 
converted into melancholy. There were days during 
that month of degradation when he would unhesitatingly 


Weakness and Degradation 107 

have ended his life had the means for doing so been at 
his disposal. 

Even the coming into the silent work-room of Arthur 
Brown, gaunt, pale and lifeless, could arouse in Sher- 
man no sensation of pity, but only an increased bitter- 
ness of heart, only an increase to that burden of the 
unspoken rebellion against God and life which was bear- 
ing him to the very ground. 

On Sundays when he was compelled to march with 
the others into the chapel, Sherman held his head erect, 
caring not for the scrutiny of the curious visitors — not 
from any feeling of bravado, but from the utter listless- 
ness of indifference. 

He attended to his work w T ith indifferent application. 
It mattered not to him whether the instructor com- 
mended or swore. When reproved for inattention he 
shrugged his shoulders with a superb gesture of incon- 
sequence. What did it matter to him ? What did any- 
thing matter ? 

When Arthur Brown, whose bench was next his own, 
tried surreptitiously to whisper to him, Sherman did not 
always take the trouble to try to understand what the boy 
was saying. But the sight of the lad’s pale, wistful face 
often filled his soul with a fierce desire to wreak ven- 
geance. Upon whom the vengeance should be wreaked 
he did not exactly know. Perhaps upon the boy’s guar- 
dians who had so cruelly neglected him; perhaps upon 
the inexorable system of civilization which made it pos- 
sible for the boy to be punished for his guardian’s neg- 
lect. Perhaps he should wreak his vengeance upon the 
parody of justice as to his mind it was exemplified in 


io8 


Sherman Hale 


the courts of the Commonwealth. Perhaps he should 
seek vengeance upon the God or the Pate which made so 
pitiful a mess of its rule of the universe. 

But the days dragged by, and at last the month passed 
away. When Sherman Hale was released from the red 
suit and dressed again in the common black of the Sec- 
ond Grade prisoner, he was possessed of hut two ideas. 
The ideas were, escape and vengeance. During the long 
sleepless nights in his stuffy cell, and the long dreary 
days at his hateful task, he had come to the deliberate 
determination that he would submit to imprisonment no 
longer than he could possibly help. He would watch 
for oportunities ; he would make opportunities; but 
somehow, by hook or crook, he would escape from the 
intolerable, galling thraldom of incarceration. 

And when he was free he would be revenged for all 
the indignities that had been put upon him, and for all 
the injustice that had been suffered by this boy at his 
side. 

Possessed by these ideas, in reality obsessed by them, 
Sherman Hale was re-inducted into the line of prisoners 
under the charge of Officer Marden. 


CHAPTER XII. 


THE OPINION OF AN EXPERT 

The day following “Chubby” Nichols’ unsuccessful 
attempt to see Sherman Hale, the disappointed man 
betook himself to the bachelor quarters of the friend 
whom he had described to Myrtice as a “dabster of a fel- 
low at the hand-writing business.” 

James Merriweather, or “Jim Merry,” as he was 
familiarly called by his clubmates, was by profession a 
lawyer, but by inclination and practice an amateur detec- 
tive. The sheepskin volumes of legal precedents with 
which his shelves were lined interested him not at all. 
But a small bookcase of selected works on all phases of 
criminal detection showed signs of constant use. 

Especially had Mr. Merriweather interested himself 
in that line of criminology which involved the use of 
other men’s signatures and the appropriation of anoth- 
er’s chirography. He was engaged upon his favorite 
occupation when “Chubby” Nichols knocked at the door 
of his apartment. His table was littered with papers of 
various sizes and shapes, and he was scanning carefully 
beneath a powerful microscope the hand-writing upon 
sundry torn scraps which he had roughly pieced together 
and pasted upon his blotting pad. 

“Come in,” he said ungraciously in answer to “Chub- 
by’s” knock. But he did not look up from his absorb- 


110 


Sherman Hale 


in g work, nor did he cease puffing at his huge meer- 
schaum pipe. Mr. Nichols entered and helped himself 
to a leather easy chair. 

“ Cigars on the table at the right, wine and liquors in 
the cupboard,” announced the worker, still without look- 
ing up. “Help yourself, but don’t talk; for heaven’s 
sake, don’t talk.” 

Smilingly Mr. Nichols helped himself to a Havana, 
and lounging comfortably in an easy chair, he waited 
patiently. Fifteen minutes passed in dead silence, 
broken only by an ocasional ejaculation from the little 
man with the microscope. 

“I have it,” he announced at last, excitedly. “Look 
here, you, whoever you are. Do you see that little hesi- 
tating quirk at the turning of the ‘A’ % See it ? No man 
would hesitate like that in the middle of his own signa- 
ture. A forgery, plain and simple enough, and it means 
a term of imprisonment to someone. Gad, how bungling 
these fellows are. Don’t you see it, you chump ?” 

“Chubby” admitted that he saw nothing through the 
microscope except what seemed to be a huge blur of 
watered ink. 

“Stupid !” declared his friend. “Darned stupid ! It’s 
as plain as the nose on your face.” 

“I noticed that it took you at least fifteen long min- 
utes to discover it yourself,” “Chubby” remarked 
quietly. 

“No such thing, no such thing,” the other replied 
testily. “I saw it at once, only I wanted to be dead sure. 
Who are you anyway ?” he added suddenly, for the first 
time turning his attention from his papers to his vis- 


The Opinion of an Expert ill 


itor. “Oh, ‘Chubby.’ Well, of course, you couldn’t 
see it. I didn’t know it was you. You, my fat, jolly 
friend, could not see the hole in a doughnut if it was 
hung on the very end of your turned up nose.” 

“Chubby” laughed good naturedly as he sank back in 
the soft easy chair. 

“Have something?” Mr. Merriweather asked cordi- 
ally, turning towards the corner cabinet. 

“Ho, not to-day. I’ve got a job for you.” 

“Good. What is it? Hot a case at law? Deliver 
me!” The little man put up his hands in a comical 
gesture of mock despair. “Don’t say you come as a 
client. But give me a letter. Yes, I have it. Give me a 
note from your last sweetheart and ask me what kind 
of a girl she is, and I’ll tell you in a jiffy. Say, is it 
a note ?” 

“Ho; nothing more interesting than a cancelled 
check.” Mr. Hichols took the paper from his pocket- 
book and handed it to his friend. “What do you make 
of that?” 

Mr. Merriweather took the paper as eagerly as most 
men would accept the check uncancelled. With scant 
courtesy, he turned his hack to his caller and seated 
himself again at his table. He examined the check first 
with his naked eye, turning it round and round in his 
hand, viewing it from all possible angles. Then he 
placed it beneath his microscope. “Can’t see anything 
of interest here,” he exclaimed contemptuously after a 
few minutes of scrutiny. “Check was written by an old 
man, or perhaps by an old woman. The signature espe- 
cially shows signs of femininity. The precise, fine writ- 


112 


Sherman Hale 


in g with an occasional unsteadiness points to a person 
of fixed habits, bordering on old age. Probably a man 
or a woman of strong will and large mentality. ” 

“Why do you say ‘or a woman?’ ” asked “Chubby” 
with interest. “The check, you can see, is signed with 
a man’s name.” 

“Of course, I can see. Do you think I am blind, or 
am I a fool? But the signature looks like a woman’s 
for all its masculine name. It is too delicate for a 
man’s. See here ! The touch in that signature is much 
more delicate than in the words above. Compare the 
V in Camwell to the ‘e’ in hundred and you will see 
what I mean. By Jove! This is interesting after all. 
As sure as you live, the signature is not only more deli- 
cate than the body of the check, but it is more wavering 
and unsteady. How, ordinarily, a man’s hand-writing 
is most firm and steady when he is writing his own name. 
He is more familiar with that, you see. But in this 
check the usual order is reversed. The body of the check 
has the firmer, bolder touch. But if that signature is a 
forgery it’s mighty well done. It’s the best I’ve ever 
seen yet. Where did you get the check anyway ? What’s 
in it?” 

“A friend of mine is in prison convicted of forging 
that check,” “Chubby” answered gravely. 

“You don’t say. How old is your friend?” 

“About twenty-one.” 

“Man or woman ?” 

“Man.” 

“Man, twenty-one — well, he didn’t do it, that’s all. 
Gad! the stupidity of those courts of ours. Ho young 


The Opinion of an Expert 113 


man could have written that name. Any fool ought to 
know that. But they don’t observe, they don’t observe.” 

“No, they don’t observe,” reiterated “Chubby” dryly. 
“They only convict. But if my friend didn’t do it, I 
want to know who did.” 

“Oh, and you expect me to tell you that, do you ?” 

“Certainly.” 

“You blanked idiot. How can I tell you with just 
that slip of paper? Bring me some specimens of the 
suspected persons, so I can make comparisons. What 
do you think I am ? Do you suppose I’m omniscient ?” 

“No; but I wish you were.” 

“No, sir; not for me. Omniscience would spoil the 
fun of studying the thing out. Leave the check and 
bring your samples, and I’ll tell you all I can. But 
listen, boy. You’d better look for a woman. I’ll bet you 
a case of wine that the body of that check was written 
by an old man, and the signature by a woman.” 

“Done,” the young man exclaimed promptly. 

But the words of Mr. Merriweather gave him no end 
of annoyance. The only possible woman was Myrtico 
herself, and somehow he could not bear to think that 
she had done it, even though it had been in a moment 
of mental aberration. Very vividly did he remember 
the troubled, anxious look that had come into her eyes 
when in the dim library she had told him of her own 
suspicions of herself, and it took no great effort of the 
imagination to picture her distress should she learn that 
her own unconscious act had been the cause of her 
friend’s disgrace. 

“Chubby” Nichols had had many girl friends. Some 


ii4 


Sherman Hale 


of them had for a little time been more than friends. 
In his boyish fancy he had called more than one of them 
his sweetheart. But when they had all in turn promptly 
forgotten their temporary affection for him, he had 
always been able to go on his gay way untroubled. In 
all his careless, irresponsible life no woman had ever 
really touched his heart. 

Until he had met Myrtice Meredith at his uncle’s din- 
ner party and had talked with her in the dimly lighted 
library, the vision of no woman’s face had ever dis- 
turbed his healthy appetite or penetrated beyond the 
hours of consciousness into the realm of sleep. But 
her face he could not forget. On both of the nights since 
their meeting he had seen her in his dreams as she had 
looked up at him with sweet wistfulness when she had 
entrusted the check to his keeping, or as she had looked 
with anxious, troubled eyes when she had hesitatingly 
spoken of her dread suspicion of herself. 

He knew he would give a great deal if he could take 
that troubled look away from her eyes forever. Indeed, 
there had been times during the past two days when he 
roundly accused himself of making the salvation of his 
friend from prison and disgrace secondary to his desire 
to relieve from all anxiety this girl with her trustful 
eyes and her winsome womanhood. 

Had he but known that her heart was given to Sher- 
man Hale, he would have most soundly berated himself 
for his thoughts of her, and most manfully would he 
have sought to overcome them. But he had no thought 
that her interest in Sherman was other than the interest 
of a close friend. 


The Opinion of an Expert 115 

That evening found Mr. Nichols in a grave dilemma. 
He wanted to call on Myrtice as he had promised to do. 
He wanted just to see her again and to feel once more 
the charm of her presence. But he did not want to tell 
her what Merriweather had said about the femininity 
of that signature. 

“ There’s no need for her to know that,” he solilo- 
quized. “At least not until Merriweather is more sure. 
The old chump. I don’t believe he is right. He can’t 
he right. I won’t have it so.” 

In the end, unselfish man that he was, he decided not 
to risk the call that would he so pleasant for him, for 
fear that it might result in adding to the burden of her 
anxiety. “For I’m such a confounded rattle-brain,” 
he admitted sadly, “that in spite of myself I should 
give away everything Merriweather said about the 
cursed check. Heigh-o, no little tete-a-tete for me 
to-night.” 

Having come to this laudable conclusion, Mr. Nichols 
repaired to his Club and sat down to write Myrtice a 
letter. It was not an easy task, for in some way to her 
he could not seem to scratch off anything just as he 
would do to any other of his friends and acquaintances. 
He began several letters and tore them all up with a ges- 
ture of superb contempt. Finally he composed one that 
seemed to him more satisfactory. 

“Dear Miss Meredith : I find that business this even- 
ing keeps me from the pleasure of calling upon you as 
I promised.” 


1 16 


Sherman Hale 


(“God forgive the lie,” he muttered as he read the 
words.) 

“I have seen my friend, the hand-writing expert, and 
before he will offer any opinion he wants to see speci- 
mens of your guardian’s hand-writing, also, if you 
please, the hand-writing of your guardian’s secretary. 
And if you have any bit of Sherman’s chirography about 
you, please send that on as well. 

“If you will send these specimens to me, I will report 
what he says as soon as I can. I hope you will not 
worry. I think we are going to straighten this tangle 
all out. Yours very sincerely, 

“Chester M. Nichols.” 

“Address: The Commonwealth.” 

Having directed the envelope in his most careful 
hand-writing, he entrusted it to a messenger boy, and 
lighting a cigar he sauntered out into the billiard room. 
He found an unusual crowd of men watching the pool 
playing at the table marked, “Open Game.” A dapper 
young man, most carefully dressed, with hair neatly 
parted in the middle, and plastered upon his forehead, 
was at the cue. The young man was evidently nervous, 
for when “Chubby” approached the table, he missed a 
comparatively easy shot. As the ball caromed from the 
cushion instead of falling into the pocket, a bystander 
nudged his neighbor and chuckled. 

“What’s on?” “Chubby” asked in a low tone. 

“The boys are pulling in a sucker,” the man nearest 
him vouchsafed. “He’s in now I fancy a little more 
than he can comfortably stand.” 


The Opinion of an Expert 


117 


“ That’s a damned shame,” “ Chubby” asserted. “We 
ought not to allow that kind of business here. Who’s 
the kid anyway?” 

“I don’t know. Some fellow that Banks brought in 
with him.” 

As the speaker finished his remark, Banks cleared the 
table of the last ball. The dapper young man with 
plastered hair turned from the table to put his cue in 
the rack. 

“Enough ?” Banks asked with assumed surprise. 

“Yes, for to-night,” he replied with a sickly smile, as 
he wiped the perspiration from his brow. 

Banks, giving a significant wink to the other play- 
ers, put up his cue also, and turned with the strange 
young man to leave the room. As the two passed 
“Chubby” Nichols he heard the “sucker” whisper: 

“I’m afraid I owe you more than I can pay to-night. 
Will you take my note ?” 

“Chubby” turned on his heel and faced the pair with 
blazing eyes. “Banks,” he said with a distinctness that 
was heard throughout the entire room, “you know this 
isn’t right, and that it’s distinctly against the spirit of 
this Club. Young man, if I can be of any assistance to 
you I hope you will let me.” 

The face of the “sporty” Banks flushed angrily, but 
readily perceiving that it would not be to his advantage 
to quarrel in public with “Chubby” Nichols, he silently 
motioned the latter to follow them out of the room. 

“How much do you owe this man?” “Chubby” 
demanded as the three sat down at a table in the 
deserted cafe. 


n8 


Sherman Hale 


“ That’s none of your damned business,” interrupted 
Banks. 

“ Excuse me, I was addressing this other gentleman, 
not you,” “Chubby” remarked imperturbably. 

“I owe him a hundred dollars,” the victim replied 
with hestitation. 

“And you have with you ?” 

“About twenty.” 

Without a word “Chubby” took out his pocket-book 
and counted out four crisp twenty-dollar bills. 

“Now, Banks,” he said as he laid the notes on the 
table, “take your boodle and get out. If I hear of your 
doing this kind of thing in this Club again, by God, I’ll 
have you expelled.” 

With an angry, menacing look, Banks gathered up 
the bills and swaggered out of the room. “Now, young 
man, let me give you a bit of fatherly advice. Probably 
you’re five years older than I am, but I know what I’m 
talking about. Don’t play pool until you know how 
to do it.” 

With which sage remark “Chubby” rose and started 
to leave the room. 

“But you will let me give you my note for this kind- 
ness,” the young man protested, detaining him with a 
hand upon his shoulder. 

“Oh, if you like,” the other replied carelessly. “It 
won’t do you any harm to give the note to me, but you 
wouldn’t want to give it to him. See ?” 

If the young man saw the difference he made no reply, 
for already he was writing his note. 

“The name?” he queried, looking up from the paper. 


The Opinion of an Expert 119 


“ Chester M. Nichols.” 

“For value received, I promise to pay Chester M. 
Nichols eighty dollars,” the young man wrote. 

His mind full of the subject of chirography, 
“Chubby” noticed curiously that the hand was pecu- 
liarly neat and precise. But he was not at all prepared 
for the shock of surprise when the writer came to his 
signature. With painstaking neatness, and with a touch 
so delicate as to be almost feminine, the dapper young 
man signed to his note the name, “ J. Adams Barrington.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 


ESCAPE. 

After his promotion from the red suit, when Sherman 
Hale again took his place in the line under the charge of 
Officer Marden, that burly officer made no audible com- 
ment; but ^when he encountered the prisoner’s surly 
gaze he touched his hip pocket significantly, and he 
chuckled to himself with brutal glee as he noted that the 
movement caused Sherman to drop his eyes and to shiver 
with uncontrollable dread. 

After breakfast, when the men were in the workshop, 
the officer felt that it would be good sport to taunt his 
victim. All the prisoners had seated themselves at their 
work except Sherman, who stood in the middle of the 
floor uncertain as to his place of assignment. Marden 
approached him roughly. 

“ Why don’t you get to work, damn you ?” 

“I’m waiting for the instructor to tell me what to do,” 
Sherman replied without looking up. “I’ve been away 
for awhile, you know.” 

“Aha ! Well, whose fault is it that you’ve had a vaca- 
tion, eh ? How did you like it, bub, in the ‘sick room’ ? 
Hice, pretty place, ain’t it? The next time you try to 
interfere with the discipline of the prison, you’ll know 
it, eh?” 

It is impossible to convey the lashing contempt of the 


Escape 


121 


officer’s cruel tone. Sherman clenched his fists invol- 
untarily. The wary officer saw the movement and lifted 
his hilly in menace. The prisoners in the room stopped 
their work and looked at the two men in eager expec- 
tancy. But while they looked, with an involuntary 
shudder, Sherman again lowered his eyes, while his 
relaxed hand dropped nervelessly to his side. 

Thus he stood impotently bewailing his lost manhood 
while the big officer sneered in open contempt. But just 
at that moment a quiet, stern voice interrupted the 
proceedings. 

“What’s the trouble, Marden?” asked the Deputy, 
who had slipped into the room with the noiseless step 
which he sometimes found it advisable to use. 

“The boy was threatening me, sir,” the man 
complained. 

“Why isn’t he at work ?” sternly. 

“He’s just out of the ‘red suit’ and hasn’t been 
assigned.” 

“Oh !” The Deputy was becoming interested. “He’s 
the man who assaulted you in the dining room, isn’t he ?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Come with me,” the Deputy commanded Sherman as 
he turned abruptly and walked out of the room. 

Out across the prison yard Sherman followed the Dep- 
uty, his mind occupied with wondering what was com- 
ing next. Was he to be punished again? In this place 
of gross injustice, would the taunt of the officer con- 
sign him once more to the horrors of the “sick room”? 

In the very center of the prison yard stands a little 
octagonal building devoted to the use of the Deputy 


122 


Sherman Hale 


Superintendent. Without once speaking to his com- 
panion the Deputy entered this office, and the prisoner 
followed doggedly. For by this time a feeling of utter 
indifference had overcome Sherman, and as he stood by 
the Deputy’s desk waiting for the arbiter of his fate to 
speak, he folded his arms across his breast in an atti- 
tude of supreme unconcern. 

“ What made you knock down Officer Harden ?” The 
question was asked brusquely but not unkindly. 

“Because he was brutally handling an innocent boy,” 
Sherman replied without emotion. 

“Hadn’t the boy been caught passing tobacco?” 

“Yes.” 

“And isn’t that against the rules of the prison?” 

“I believe so” — with an indifferent shrug of the 
shoulders. 

“Why, then, do you say the boy was innocent ?” 

“Because he did not know the tobacco was in the book 
he was asked to pass.” 

“Humph!” 

Sherman was silent, wondering whither the questions 
were tending. 

“You’ve been to college, I believe,” was the next 
apparently irrelevant remark. 

“Yes.” 

“And yet you are here ?” 

Sherman again shrugged his shoulders and made no 
comment. 

The Deputy Superintendent lifted his keen eyes to the 
prisoner’s face and subjected him to a rigid scrutiny. 
When Sherman did not quail before the sturdy, critical 


Escape 


123 


examination, the Deputy turned away with an inscrut- 
able grunt, and began sorting a pile of papers on his 
desk. He fumbled with the papers rapidly for a 
moment or two and finally selected one which seemed to 
meet his approval. 

“Sit down there,” he commanded, pointing to a chair 
at a nearby table, “and make me three copies of this 
report.” 

With the same air of indifference with which he would 
have obeyed the order to go to the “sick room” Sherman 
took his place at the table and made the three copies 
desired. When they were completed the Deputy looked 
at them, emitted a grunt of approval, and gave him 
more work of a similar nature. 

Thus by the quick decision of a man who rarely 
made a mistake in his estimate of human nature, Sher- 
man was elevated to the coveted position of Deputy’s 
Clerk. 

The new position gave him relief from some of the 
most degrading conditions of his imprisonment. He was 
no longer obliged to march with the other men in the 
prison lock-step. He came into no close, objectionable 
contact with his undesirable associates. The freedom 
of the yard was his at all hours of the day, and fre- 
quently he was entrusted with messages from the Deputy 
to the turnkey in the Guard Boom, or to the clerk in the 
office outside the heavy iron door. But on the occasions 
when he stepped outside that door Sherman noticed both 
with amusement and resentment that the eyes of some 
officer were always fixed keenly upon him. 

Had he been made clerk to the Deputy in the earlier 


124 


Sherman Hale 


months of his imprisonment, Sherman Hale would have 
settled down to his duties almost with content. But now 
it was too late. The experiences of the “sick room” and 
the “red suit” had been too bitter. Even the compara- 
tive freedom of his new occupation seemed to him intol- 
erably irksome and degrading, and not for a single 
moment was his mind free from the control of those two 
fixed ideas; escape and vengeance — blind, unreasoning 
vengeance. 

The opportunity for the escape came after he had 
been in his new position about two weeks. The time was 
the middle of January. 

The Deputy Superintendent had gone away for the 
day, leaving enough work for his clerk to keep him 
employed until the early supper time. Sherman toiled 
diligently until the noon whistle blew. Availing him- 
self of the privilege of his position, he did not at .once 
obey the call of the whistle, desiring first to finish the 
report upon which he was engaged. 

It was exactly five minutes past the noon hour when 
he emerged from the Deputy’s office and started across 
the yard in the direction of the dining hall. For the 
moment the yard was absolutely deserted. A part of 
the force of day officers was with the men in the dining 
hall, which had no windows overlooking the yard. The 
remainder of the officers who had been on duty during 
the morning hours were already sitting down to their 
noonday meals in their homes outside the prison walls. 

The momentary desertion of the yard affected Sher- 
man like a draught of an intoxicating beverage. In 
calmer, saner moments he might have hesitated before 


Escape 


125 


attempting the daring feat which immediately presented 
itself to his consciousness. But now there was no hesi- 
tation. Indeed, it would have been most unfortunate for 
the execution of his plan if he had paused to think for 
an instant. 

Often had he measured with his eye the height of the 
west wing of the prison which formed a part of the 
yard’s enclosure. The wall which stretched out beyond 
the wing he knew to be insurmountable. It was twenty 
feet high and its sides were of sheer, smooth brick. 
But the wing itself, though higher than the wall, offered 
footholds on the stone window sills and the iron cross 
bars of the heavy grating. The sill of the long, narrow 
window Sherman estimated to be not more than ten feet 
from the ground. The window itself was perhaps fifteen 
feet in height, and the top of the window was some eight 
or ten feet below the eaves of the roof. 

To bridge the gaps of sheer brick wall below and 
above the grated window constituted his chief problem. 
After that he would have to undertake the difficult feat 
of swinging over the projection of the eaves, and he 
would be obliged to hazard the chance of securing a 
firm foothold upon the slated roof. It was all extremely 
hazardous, and there was ever the danger of discovery. 

But no thought of the dangers involved disturbed him. 
The lust for freedom was within him, and in the deserted 
yard the freedom did not seem hopelessly unattainable. 

Swiftly but silently he ran into the shop devoted to 
the plumbers’ trade. He found this room, like the yard, 
deserted. It was the work of but a moment to find the 
piece of lead pipe bent roughly in the shape of the let- 


126 


Sherman Hale 


ter “S” which he had noticed there the day before. He 
found a small coil of half -inch rope on the floor of the 
neighboring blacksmith shop. As he ran out into the 
yard again he securely tied one end of the rope to a 
bend in the crooked pipe. He thus had fashioned a 
crude grappling hook, the attached rope serving the 
double purpose of throwing the hook into position and 
of forming a support for his upward scramble. 

One, two, and three throws of the rope, but the stub- 
born pipe refused to catch on the iron cross-bar, and the 
moments were flying. The fourth effort was success- 
ful. The upper curve of the pipe caught in the iron 
cross-bar of the window and held firmly. Performing 
the simple feat which he had practiced so often in the 
Gymnasium, he scrambled hand-over-hand up the swing- 
ing rope until he stood safely on the widow sill. Here 
he allowed himself one quick glance about the yard. 
Thank God, no one was as yet in sight. It was compar- 
atively easy to shin up the iron bars of the grated win- 
dow, and a moment later, holding by one hand to the 
cold iron, with the other he succeeded in swinging his 
improvised grapple upward until it caught and held in 
the trough beneath the eaves. Another hand-over-hand 
scramble, a gripping of the edge of the trough with fin- 
gers already becoming numb with cold, a bold, reckless 
swing of his body outward and upward, and Sherman 
Hale found himself clinging desperately upon the edge 
of the slated roof, some thirty feet above the hard frozen 
ground of the prison yard. The yard was still deserted. 
So far he was safe. The worst of the climb was over, 
but the greater risk of detection was still to come. 


Escape 


127 


To his great delight, he found that the rubber-soled 
“sneakers” customarily worn by the officer’s “runners” 
clung readily to the slated roof. With his lead pipe 
grapple and dangling rope in his hand, he ran easily up 
to the ridge pole and peered cautiously over. Blessed 
freedom was in sight, and his heart beat exultantly. As' 
he hesitated for an instant, however, the sound of heavy 
footsteps upon the concrete walk in front of the prison 
caused his beating heart to stand still. With suspended 
breath he fell upon his face, clinging desperately to the 
ridge pole with both hands. The footsteps passed on, 
and the slamming of a door told him that their owner 
had probably passed inside the prison entrance. How 
many minutes had elapsed since he had left the Deputy’s 
office he could not tell, but he knew that never before — 
not even in any great football game — had he need for 
such quickness of thought and of action. 

Kunning and slipping he went down the roof on the 
side towards freedom. With an almost superhuman 
effort he held himself to the eaves with one hand while 
with the other he fixed his grapple into the trough. 
Grasping the rope he swung himself out and over the 
projecting eaves and lowered himself rapidly until his 
dangling feet caught a foothold upon the iron cross-bar 
of the outside window. With his hands gripping the 
upright iron bars, he abandoned his rope, leaving it to 
astonish the officers when they should discover his escape. 
Slipping down the iron bars, he swung for an instant 
from the stone sill of the window, and then dropped 
lightly to the hard ground. 

He did not stop to look around him. Thanking his 


128 


Sherman Hale 


lucky stars that the frozen ground could receive no 
impression from his footsteps, he ran across the road to 
the little railroad station. A freight train was just pull- 
ing out. He caught hold of the iron handle of a pass- 
ing box car and swung on to the moving train. 

After the rumbling, rattling cars were well out of 
sight of the Reformatory, he climbed wearily up the iron 
steps to the top of the car, and, completely exhausted, fell 
flat upon his face upon the running board.* 

*An escape from the Reformatory in the exact manner 
herein described was actually accomplished about ten 
years ago. 


CHAPTEK XIV 


ANNOYING DELAYS 

In spite of the lateness of the hour, “Chubby” Hich- 
ols, with the note of Barrington’s tucked away in his 
pocket, hailed a cab and drove directly to the apart- 
ments of his friend, Mr. Merriweather. But to his dis- 
may he found the rooms locked. Peal after peal of the 
bell brought no answer, and at last he was reluctantly 
forced to the conclusion that Merriweather had yielded 
to one of his sudden eccentric whims and, with his valet, 
had gone away on a visit. 

“And the devil only knows where he’s gone or how 
long he’ll stay,” grumbled the disappointed man. He 
paced impatiently back and forth in the hallway for 
some time, alternately fuming at Merriweather for his 
crankiness and denouncing himself for leaving the check 
in Merriweather’s possession. 

“It was positively asinine of me,” he declared. “Just 
sheer, plumb, downright idiocy. Why couldn’t I have 
had sense enough to keep the check, and then I could 
have shown it to some other expert ?” 

But neither his grumbling nor his self-recriminations 
availed, and at last — the most disgusted man in all Bos- 
ton — he turned upon his heel and savagely strode home. 

In his own bachelor quarters, about three blocks 
removed from those of Merriweather’s, he took Barring- 


130 


Sherman Hale 


ton’s note from his pocket, and seating himself in his 
easy chair with an nnlighted cigar between his teeth, he 
tried to apply to the hit of paper the methods which he 
had seen practiced by his friend. After awhile, follow- 
ing what he gleefully called “a deucedly bright idea,” he 
rose from his chair and opened a drawer of his writing 
desk. 

In a moment he had his table covered with open let- 
ters, dainty letters all of them, written upon tinted, 
scented paper. 

“If that isn’t a collection of femininities, I never 
saw one !” he ejaculated aloud. “There are letters from 
at least twenty-five girls in that bunch — all of them nice, 
sweet girls, too. Notes of invitation to dinner parties 
and to week-end house parties, letters of friendship, and 
some letters of love. I think I recognize at least three 
refusals of my hand in this lot, and perhaps I could find 
more if I should try. Let’s see, there was Leila, and 
Louise, and Clarice, and — I forget the rest. Now, let’s 
see how this note of J. Adams Barrington answers to 
what old ‘Merry’ might call the test of the feminine.” 

With his reading glass he examined all of the scented 
letters carefully, comparing them with the note. It was 
interesting work and he enjoyed himself immensely. 

“Let’s see if I can remember ‘Merry’s’ learned 
phrases,” he murmured to himself. “Yes, the ‘delicacy of 
touch’ was one, and the ‘firmness of the characters.’ Well, 
Mr. J. Adams Barrington, I have to inform you that your 
touch is fully as delicate as that of sweet Leila or even of 
petite little Clarice. And your characters, my boy, are 
not one whit firmer than the average characters in all 


\ 


Annoying Delays 131 

this bunch. I’m afraid, sir, that Nature made a mistake 
when it turned you out a man. According to the expert 
opinion of Chester M. Nichols, a la James Merri- 
weather, you should be a woman.” 

This point decided to his satisfaction he gathered the 
letters into a crumpled mass and tossed them into the 
fire. 

“ Good-bye, Leila and Louise and Clarice and all the 
rest of you,” he said airily. “It’s true enough I really 
said good-bye to you some time ago, or rather you said 
good-bye to me. But now it’s different. Your notes 
don’t belong in my room any more, for 

“ ‘There’s only one girl in the world for me.’ ” 

He hummed the tune carelessly as he sat down again 
in his easy chair. But soon his face became unwontedly 
sober. And as he gazed into the open fire and mused 
with his cigar, the picture he saw there was the portrait 
of Myrtice Meredith. 

“Dear girl, I must take the trouble out of those eyes. 
I must, and I will.” 

The next day, early, he called again at the apartments 
of Merriweather, but again the rooms were locked. Every 
day that week he repeated his efforts to find the missing 
man. But Sunday came once more and still there was 
no Merriweather, nor could he find any clue to his 
friend’s whereabouts. 

Also, when another Sunday had come he had received 
no word from Myrtice in answer to his request for the 
specimens of hand-writing. The disappearance of Mer- 


132 


Sherman Hale 


riweather was only annoying ; the silence of Myrtice was 
most perplexing. 

On Sunday afternoon he determined to run the risk 
of blurting out things which could only increase her 
unhappiness and call on her at her home. It was half 
after five when he rang the bell of the Beacon Street 
house. 

“Professor Cam well and Miss Meredith have gone to 
ride,” the butler informed him. 

“When will they return?” 

“They did not say, sir.” 

With something like a smothered oath “Chubby” 
turned away and went to his Club. It was while he was 
sitting morosely by himself before the open fire of the 
smoking room that it occurred to him that he would write 
a letter to Sherman. “Perhaps the old skins will let him 
have the letter if they won’t let him see a caller,” he 
muttered as he sat down at the writing desk. 

He wrote two or three pages in his own breezy style, 
narrating the gossip of their mutual friends and speak- 
ing briefly of his travels abroad. Then he tried to 
become more personal. He wanted to tell his old friend 
that he knew he was innocent, and to let him know what 
they were doing to free him from the burden of his 
undeserved dishonor. But here his pen became strangely 
rebellious. It was not easy for “Chubby” Hichols to 
write of things personal. It was not his nature to be 
“soft” was the way he would have expressed it himself. 
“Besides,” he reasoned, “what’s the use of telling him 
what we are trying to do when as yet we have accom- 
plished absolutely nothing ? Hang it all, I won’t do it. 


Annoying Delays 


133 


I won’t write him a word, and I won’t try to see him 
again until I have Merriweather’s assurance that he can 
prove before a Court that some other fellow signed that 
check.” 

So saying, he tore his letter into little hits and threw 
the pieces petulantly into the waste-basket. 

On Monday he called again at Professor Camwell’s, 
only to be told that Miss Meredith was indisposed and 
could see no one. He sent up a second card by the ser- 
vant, upon which he had scribbled, “Why don’t you send 
me the specimens ?” and took his departure with as good 
grace as he could muster. The repeated disappointments 
were beginning to tell upon his nerves. 

It was on a Saturday afternoon quite six weeks after 
the dinner party at Professor White’s when “Chubby” 
again saw Myrtice, and the meeting was accidental. He 
was riding on the Fenway and met her on her horse in 
charge of a groom. 

With an almost imperious gesture he signed to her 
to stop, but when she had obeyed and her horse stood 
docilely by his own, he looked into her eyes and found 
himself for once in his life at a loss for words. It 
would be puerile to speak of the glorious winter 
weather, and to mention abruptly his recent disappoint- 
ments would be almost brutal. While he hesitated, 
embarrassed by her nearness, it was she who broke the 
silence. 

“Why, Mr. Nichols,” she said, smiling gaily, and 
offering her hand, “I began to think that I should never 
see you again. Do all young men keep their word as 
faithfully as you have done ?” 


134 


Sherman Hale 


“I assure you that if I have seemed remiss it is not 
my fault,” he declared earnestly, holding her hand a 
trifle longer than was absolutely necessary. “I have 
tried to call on you several times, but each time you were 
either out or indisposed.” 

“Who said I was indisposed?” she demanded, her 
black eyes flashing dangerously. 

“Why, the butler; who else?” 

“But who told him to say so ? I didn’t.” 

He smothered the ejaculation of annoyance that 
sprang to his lips. 

“Do you remember what days you called ?” she asked, 
her expression changing to one of judicial consideration. 

“Last Thursday was the last time, I believe.” 

“And was I out then or indisposed ?” 

“Indisposed.” 

“What time was it?” 

“About five or half after.” 

She remained silent for a moment, thinking intently, 
while he watched her with curiosity. 

“I can’t make anything out of it,” she declared at 
last, lifting her eyes to his. They wore the troubled, 
anxious expression which he had seen once in the 
dimly-lighted library and oftentimes since in his 
dreams. 

“Do you mean you haven’t been ill at all ?” he asked. 

“Yes; that’s just what I mean. I haven’t been ill, 
and I’ve hardly been out of the house since we came 
back from the country.” 

“It’s very strange,” he murmured. “Some one must 
be trying to keep you close.” 


Annoying Delays 


135 


“I have a thought,” he added, as she made no reply. 
“A brilliant one, and I don’t often have them,” he smiled 
whimsically. “Was that secretary of your guardian’s 
in a position to know who might call on you ?” 

“Why, I suppose he could know if he chose. He 
works in the study, and the study opens directly into the 

hall. But why should he Oh, Mr. Nichols, the 

idea is preposterous.” 

“Perhaps so. But supposing he knew that I knew 
something about him which he would not want you to 
know. I fancy I’m expressing myself somewhat 
crudely, hut you catch my meaning ?” 

“But do you know anything about him ?” 

“Nothing that matters very much. Nothing, surely, 
that I should tell to his discredit. But he might be 
afraid that I would tell, don’t you see ?” 

“Yes, perhaps,” she admitted slowly, “but I don’t 
understand. There is something wrong somewhere. Do 
you know, Mr. Nichols, I’ve begun to suspect that even 
my mail is being watched. I have written some letters” 
— he did not notice the little hesitation in her manner 
— “to which I have received no answers, and I cannot 
understand it at all.” 

“Did you get a letter from me ?” 

“No,” wonderingly. 

“Then you don’t know that I wanted to get speci- 
mens of your guardian’s hand-writing and also of 
Sherman’s ?” 

“No. Why do you want them ?” 

“The expert wants them to compare with the signa- 
ture on that check. Miss Meredith, he is almost dead cer- 


Sherman Hale 


136 

tain that Sherman could never have written that name.” 

“Oh, I knew it, I knew it,” she declared vehemently. 
“But who does he think wrote it?” 

“That’s what he wants the hand- writing specimens 
for — to find out.” 

“Doesn’t he want mine, too?” she asked anxiously. 
“Have you told him of my suspicion of myself?” 

‘Ho ; and I don’t think I shall have to. You mustn’t 
worry about that. I’m sure you couldn’t have done it. 
But those specimens” — he was hurrying on, fearing lest 
she might interrupt to question him too closely. “Can 
you get them for me ?” 

“Why, I think so — yes, easily. Where shall I send 
them ?” 

“Mayn’t I call?” 

“I’m afraid I might be ‘out’ or ‘indisposed,’ ” she 
replied mischievously, 

“If you know just when I’m coming you can easily 
overcome that difficulty. Let me come tomorrow after- 
noon. May I ?” 

“Yes, at five,” she replied, and the smile with which 
she accompanied the permission went to his head like 
strong wine. 

It was a delightful Sunday. The air never seemed 
clearer nor more exhilarating, and “Chubby” Hichols 
was never so happy, so he told himself, as during that 
brief, rapid walk to the home of Professor Camwell on 
Beacon Street. 

Myrtice answered his ring in person, apologizing for 
the unconventionality of the act with a merry twinkle in 
her eyes. She gave him tea, and before he broached the 


137 


Annoying Delays 

subject of tbe specimens of hand-writing they talked of 
many pleasant and inconsequential things. He told her 
more of his travels abroad, and much about his doings 
at home. Indeed, under her skilful guidance he talked 
more of himself than he had ever done to anyone else 
in all his life. 

Finally she gave him two sheets of paper — the one 
in her guardian’s hand, “a part of an old sermon which 
I found in the waste barrel,” she explained. The other 
sheet was a scribbled note from Sherman, written from 
Cambridge in the early spring. 

“Now wait just a minute,” she said, as he took the 
papers and reluctantly rose to go. “I know you say that 
it is useless for me to worry about doing it myself, but I 
shall feel lots better if I know I didn’t do it. I’m going 
to write a little of my own.” 

She seated herself at the desk and wrote rapidly sev- 
eral lines. 

“That’s my own natural hand,” she said, smiling up 
at him as he stood by her side. “Now, I’m going to 
copy Uncle Camwell’s signature. Look.” 

Slowly she formed the letters and “Chubby” started 
with dismay as he saw how closely they resembled the 
signature which he had studied under Merriweather’s 
microscope. He was able to conceal his anxiety, how- 
ever, and to smile cheerfully when she had finished her 
task, and again glanced up into his face. 

With the same expression of perfect trust in her eyes 
with which she had given him the check she gave into 
his keeping the specimen of her own hand-writing. 
When he held her hand a moment as he bade her good- 


Sherman Hale 


138 

bye, he again urged her not to suspect herself, and she 
replied simply : 

“I ? m beginning not to, you seem so sure about it. 
But I want to know, I must know.” 

“You shall know pretty soon,” he assured her. 

But another whole week dragged by, and it was the 
middle of January before “Chubby” again found Merri- 
weather at home. The little man shrugged his shoul- 
ders indifferently at the scolding he received for his pro- 
longed and unaccountable absence. The only explana- 
tion of his conduct which he would vouchsafe was the 
laconic word “business.” And it was not until long 
afterwards that his friend discovered that during his 
absence Mr. Merriweather had untangled a criminal 
problem which had successfully baffled the police officers 
of a distant city for some time. 

The little hand-writing expert wanted two days for 
his examination of the specimens and their comparison 
with the check. So “Chubby” was forced to leave them 
with him, and to wait again. 

The Thursday noon when he left Merriweather’s 
apartments, hopeful that the solution of the problem 
would be soon forthcoming, was the very day and almost 
the very hour when Sherman Hale was riding out of 
Concord towards Boston on the top of a box car on the 
local freight. 


CHAPTER XV 


THE TEMPTATION OF A MAN IN WANT 

Chilled to the very marrow of his hones, his hands 
so numb that he could scarcely hold to the iron rods on 
which he made his descent, Sherman Hale crawled pain- 
fully down from the box car and dropped from the 
slowly moving train in the freight yard of the Horth 
Station of Boston. 

The ride had been uneventful. Only once had he 
been in imminent danger of detection, when a brakeman 
had run along the top of the box car. By good fortune, 
Sherman at the dangerous moment was sitting on the 
rear of the car, his feet hanging over the end, while he 
tried to warm his hands by beating them against his 
breast. In this position he saw the brakeman’s head 
the instant it appeared over the top of the third car 
behind him. Before the brakeman could in turn see 
him the fugitive had dropped swiftly between the cars, 
and while he clung to the iron rods the brakeman passed 
unsuspectingly over his head. After this adventure the 
runaway remained constantly on the alert, but the ex- 
perience was not repeated. 

When the train rumbled on, leaving him alone in 
God’s clear sunshine, Sherman Hale threw his arms into 
the air with wild delight. Only the proximity of some 
workmen caused him to refrain from emitting a shout of 


140 


Sherman Hale 


exuberant joy. He was outside the prison walls. He 
was free. 

The exuberation was short-lived, for soon he began to 
take account of his situation and of his needs. 

In the first place, his clothes were most unsuitable. It 
is true they bore no distinctive prison mark which would 
be recognizable, except to one familiar with the uniform 
of the Reformatory; but he well knew that the descrip- 
tion of his dress would be included in the account of his 
escape, and the offer of reward for his recapture. 
Besides, though his clothes were reasonably sufficient for 
the shelter of the prison, they were wholly unsuited for 
the cold east winds of outdoor Boston. Evidently, he 
needed a new suit and an overcoat. 

Moreover, he must discard the soft cap which he had 
been acustomed to wear on his errands in the prison 
yard. That, too, might be included in the description 
of the missing prisoner. And the thin cloth “sneakers” 
which were all right for running errands in the Reform- 
atory were decidedly inappropriate for the brick side- 
walks of Boston. He must change his clothes. But 
where and how ? 

There was another problem which clamored for imme- 
diate solution. It was the problem of facial disguise. 
A false beard would do it, and a little dye for his hair. 
But how could he obtain ffiese requisites ? 

Afterwards there wouid be the problem of existence. 
He must live, and so he must work. With a mirthless 
smile which disfigured rather than illumined his coun- 
tenance, he remembered that this very month he had 
become of age, and that therefore, without guardianship, 


The Temptation of a Man in Want 141 


he was in his own name the possessor of a hundred thou- 
sand dollars. In his own name ! Ah, how could he ever 
use his own name again? And unless he resumed his 
name of what avail the waiting fortune ? 

As he trudged along the narrow streets with downcast 
eyes he felt mechanically in his empty pockets. Hot a 
coin was there. The money that he had taken with him 
to the Reformatory was still in the possession of the 
Prison’s clerk. But as he took his hands from the pock- 
ets and spread them before his face with a rueful smile, 
his eye fell upon the flashing jewel of his ring. It was 
a valuable diamond, the last present from his dead 
mother. 

“Jove, I hate to let that go,” he said to himself. 
“But there’s no time for sentiment now. It’s to the Jew 
shop for me. That’s the program.” 

The Hebrew behind the dirty counter of the three- 
balled shop in the Horth End of Boston eyed Sherman 
suspiciously when the latter offered the diamond in 
pawn. The suspicion increased when he had tested the 
stone and found it genuine. 

“Mein Gott ! Three hundred dollars, if it’s worth a 
cent,” he murmured ecstatically, but he did not say the 
words aloud. To his caller he made a deprecatory ges- 
ture. “I gif you twenty-five tollers,” he said. 

Though he was desperately in haste Sherman shook 
his head and turned to leave v 3 shop. 

“Vait, come back,” the vender shouted. “I gif you 
t’irty.” 

But again Sherman shook his head. 

“T’irty-five,” called the man in despair. 


142 


Sherman Hale 


Sherman turned to him angrily. “Look here, you 
old skinflint, that ring is worth three hundred and fifty 
dollars, and you know it. I want seventy-five on it. 
[Will you give it or not ? Say, quick.” 

“Ah, hut I don’t know how you get it,” the shrewd 
dealer said cautiously. “I takes risk. You stole it, 
may be, and the police vill get it from me.” 

“Stow that talk. Will you give me the seventy- 
five ?” 

“I vill gif you sixty. Sixty tollers is a great teal 
of money,” the Jew whined, “a great teal of money.” 

Just at that moment a passing policeman stopped and 
glanced indifferently into the shop. In spite of him- 
self Sherman started nervously. The Jew was observ- 
ing him narrowly and he chuckled to himself. 

“Sixty tollers,” he repeated insinuatingly. “Sixty 
tollers and I takes de risk.” 

“Give it to me,” Sherman said shortly, and with the 
dirty, greasy bills in his hands he rushed out upon the 
street. 

But he was ill at ease. The stare of that passing 
policeman had shaken him to the very depths. His 
step was halting and stealthy. When he saw another 
policeman approaching he turned and slunk guiltily 
down a side street 

It was in this narrow side alley where he found the 
shop of an old clothes vendor. He purchased a second- 
hand suit of rough but durable gray, a black overcoat, a 
derby hat, and a pair of well-worn shoes. The hat and 
overcoat he put on immediately, and with his other pur- 
chases clutched beneath his arms, he sallied forth again. 


The Temptation of a Man in Want 143 

His next stop was at a dingy, tawdry tenement house 
which displayed the sign “ Rooms to Let.” A dirty, 
unkempt woman showed him to a room on the top floor, 
but before she would let him have the key she held out 
her hand, demanding with unmistakable emphasis the 
prepayment of the rental fee. Sherman gave her a dol- 
lar instead of the fifty cents she demanded, and the con- 
sequent change in the landlady’s demeanor furnished 
him with a fleeting moment of cynical amusement. 

He stayed in his room until after dark, not daring to 
risk again the stony stare of a policeman. When he 
emerged in the early evening of the short winter’s day, 
he wore his new suit of gray, with the dark overcoat 
buttoned up to his chin, and the derby hat pulled well 
over his eyes. He found the darkness very friendly, 
and his step resumed some of its accustomed steadiness, 
as he went on his way, apparently attracting no 
attention. 

The curious glances of the dealer in wigs and whis- 
kers, however, warned him that his personal appearance 
was not yet above suspicion. He wasted but little time 
on the selection of his disguise, choosing a small brown 
beard instead of the big black one which the dealer had 
first offered. The latter, he felt, would attract too much 
attention. 

“Now just two more visits,” he muttered to himself 
with a sigh of relief. “Shirts and collars and cuffs, and 
then not a rag of the old prison stuff will be on me. 
After that a pair of glasses.” 

With his new purchases he returned to his room in 
the dingy tenement, and an hour later there emerged 


144 


Sherman Hale 


from the room a man whose age would he guessed at 
thirty or thirty-five. He had dark hair and wore a short 
brown beard. His face was pale, his eyes somewhat 
sunken and partially hidden beneath a pair of steel- 
rimmed spectacles. His clothes were neat but well-worn. 

Sherman laughed almost gleefully as he ran over 
these details of his personal appearance before the 
cracked, dirty mirror in his room. In spite of his pres- 
ent hardships there remained in him enough of youth- 
ful buoyancy to cause him rather to enjoy this new lark. 
But, to use a phrase of his college vernacular, “The game 
was still quite young.” 

He walked four blocks before he found a suitable 
dump wherein to throw his bundle of discarded prison 
clothes. With these finally disposed of, he breathed a 
sigh of intense relief. He soon found a restaurant and 
ate a hearty supper, remaining for a long time at the 
table luxuriously enjoying a newspaper and a good 
cigar. 

Before he had finished his cigar, however, a newsboy 
brought in a still later edition of the evening papers. 

“All about the remarkable prison escape,” the boy 
shouted. 

The cigar dropped from Sherman’s nerveless fingers, 
and he rose from his seat hastily. He was rushing out 
into the street with no thought except to get away, when 
a waiter touched him on the shoulder. Perspiration 
started from Sherman’s forehead and he was trembling 
from head 'to foot as he turned back. 

“Your check, sir,” the waiter said coldly. 

“Oh.” The sigh of relief was almost audible. “It 


The Temptation of a Man in Want 145 


was very careless to forget it,” lie murmured 
apologetically. 

“Yes, very careless,” the waiter agreed with a mean- 
ing shrug of his shoulders. 

The offensiveness of the man’s manner brought an 
angry flush to the pale face above the brown heard, but 
the waiter had turned away contemptuously, leaving 
Sherman to settle with the cashier. Was it all imagina- 
tion, or did the cashier look at him with suspicion? 
The man had been looking at the late paper. Had he 
been reading a description of the escaped prisoner ? 
And was he thinking that perhaps the man before him 
was the one described ? 

There was no more buoyancy in Sherman Hale’s step 
when he found himself once more upon the street. He 
bought a paper of a newsboy, offering a quarter in pay- 
ment, and without waiting for his change turned and 
ran to the shelter of his dreary lodging. 

A refreshing sleep and another glance at the complete- 
ness of his disguise somewhat renewed his confidence, 
however, and he started out the next morning in search 
of work with something like cheerfulness. Didn’t the 
clear wintry air feel good? And to think that he was 
free to go where he pleased ! 

The day’s search for work proved utterly fruitless. 
Everywhere he went in answer to the advertisements in 
the morning paper he found the demand to be always for 
experienced help and for good references. 

“Where did you work last?” 

“Why are you out of employment?” 

“What references can you give?” 


Sherman Hale 


146 

These were the questions which met him at every turn, 
and they were questions which naturally he found it 
difficult to answer. 

“I must invent a past history,” he said to himself 
as at night he entered a cheap restaurant and ordered 
a plate of baked beans. “If I had the facility of 
‘Chubby’ Nichols now I could make up a lie that would 
fit my new name to perfection. Let’s see, what sort of 
a life has Thomas Harrigan, workman, led these past 
few years ? I wonder what sort of a yarn I can fix up ?” 

His attempt at mental invention was rudely inter- 
rupted. Glancing up as the waiter shoved upon the 
bare table his pork and beans, his eye fell upon an adver- 
tisement pinned to the wall beneath the printed menu 
card. 

“Pifty Dollars Reward! Por information that will 
lead to the capture of Sherman Hale, who escaped from 
Concord Reformatory on Thursday, J anuary 
fourteenth.” 

There followed a minute description of the prisoner, 
and the placard was adorned with the photograph which 
had been taken in prison on the day of his incarceration. 

With widely distended eyes Sherman read the poster, 
then glancing around apprehensively to see if anyone 
had observed his disturbance, he tried to give his undi- 
vided attention to his frugal supper. But he fancied 
that every patron who entered the place was eyeing him 
suspiciously, and he felt quite sure that the waiters 
were nudging each other and talking about him behind 
his back. He left half of his beans on his plate and 
hurried out into the comparative darkness of the street. 


The Temptation of a Man in Want 147 


The days of the following two weeks were days of 
growing torture to the escaped prisoner. The joy of 
liberty lost all its exhilaration, and there came to take 
its place the dread, nerve-racking fear of the hunted 
animal. Before the weeks were completed his nerves 
had become wholly unstrung. He could not bear to 
look a policeman in the face. Indeed, he could hardly 
pass one on the street. Ofttimes he checked himself just 
in time to avoid running desperately away at the 
approach of an unsuspicious man in the fearsome uni- 
form, though the policeman himself was doubtless think- 
ing only of the glass of beer which he hoped to get at 
the saloon around the corner. 

Once, a week after his escape, he almost ran into a 
Reformatory officer. The sight of the familiar, hated 
uniform aroused in Sherman a feeling of unreasoning 
and well-nigh uncontrollable anger. Had he yielded 
to his first impulse he would have struck the officer in 
the face and spat upon him. It was the first time since 
his release that the old obsession for vengeance had so 
completely controlled him. 

It proved to be the last time, for almost immediately 
the insane anger gave place to unspeakable terror. He 
was afraid, cravenly, cringingly afraid, and thereafter 
it was only fear and never anger that he felt whenever 
he thought of his unmanning experiences in the prison. 

The officer, however, passed on without giving Sher- 
man a second glance, and had the fugitive been in pos- 
session of all his wits the encounter would have given 
him renewed confidence in the safety of his disguise. 
As it was, it left him shaking from head to foot, and it 


Sherman Hale 


148 

was with the utmost difficulty that he could keep from 
screaming aloud and from running at full speed along 
the sidewalk to the seclusion of his cheap room. 

During the two weeks the only occupation he had 
been able to secure consisted of a few hours’ work at 
the menial task of street cleaning. His funds were 
almost gone. Very soon he knew he would have to take 
to tramping and to begging on the street — or, he could 
become the criminal which he was supposed to be. 

The temptation of this last alternative was surging 
in his brain on a Saturday evening a little over two 
weeks after his escape. He was hunted as a criminal, 
why not become one indeed? There seemed to be no 
employment for an honest man, but every man had to 
live in some way. If he could not live honestly, why, 
then, the other. 

These were the bitter thoughts which he had not the 
strength of will to put out of his mind as he wandered 
listlessly along the brilliantly lighted street, his stom- 
ach craving for the food which his purse could not 
compass, his whole body aching with fatigue, his soul 
weary of life and rebellious against Date. 

Unconsciously, his aimless footsteps had led him 
away from his recent haunts to the more familiar vicin- 
ity of Beacon Street. He was standing upon the corner 
of Beacon and Arlington Streets when a well-dressed 
woman paused near him to buy an evening paper of a 
newsboy. To pay the boy she took out her purse, and 
under the glare of the street light Sherman caught a 
glimpse of a large roll of greenbacks. 

Money, money, money! Food, rest, and the where- 


The Temptation of a Man in Want 149 

withal to get away from the hated city where he might 
with some reason expect to begin life anew. The temp- 
tation, like a fiend incarnate, gripped him and held him. 
He felt a tightening about his throat as though fingers 
of flesh and blood were strangling him. Drops of per- 
spiration gathered upon his brow, and his clenched 
hands were cold and clammy. As the grip of the temp- 
tation tightened, he slowly opened his hand and stretched 
out his cold fingers, nervously clutching the air. A 
moment more and the prize could he his, another and he 
could have escaped. The nervous, clutching hand was 
ready for the final swift snatch, as the woman unsuspect- 
ingly closed her purse, when a light laugh rang in his 
startled ears. 

His hand fell back to his side, and he staggered for- 
ward, leaning for support against an electric-light post. 

“Myrtice, my God!” he exclaimed in an agony of 
fear and self-abasement. “ Myrtice, coming this way 
with ‘Chubby’ Nichols.” He clutched the post with 
both hands as the couple passed by. But they gave him 
no attention. 

“To them I’m just an ordinary everyday drunkard,” 
he said to himself bitterly, as he straightened up and 
looked after the receding forms. The cool air fanned 
his heated brow and in a few moments he recovered his 
equanimity. But the reaction was inevitable. Like 
the drunken man for whom his friends had mistaken 
him, he staggered away from the place down into the 
North End again, down to his room in the old tenement 
house. He sank fully dressed upon his bed, and covered 


150 


Sherman Hale 


his face with his hands, his whole body convulsed with 
the dry sobs of his anguish. 

For a long time he tossed and writhed upon the dirty 
coverlet. He clutched the bedclothes madly with his 
hands. He burrowed, his face into the pillow. He 
kicked the scarred and cracked footboard with his heavy- 
shod feet. But at length a feverish sleep of sheer exhaus- 
tion came to his relief, and his last waking thought was 
in the form of a prayer of thanksgiving, “She saved 


CHAPTER XVI 


merriweather’s experiment 

The light laugh which had startled Sherman Hale 
and saved him from crime did not come from a merry 
heart. The report of the escape of her lover from prison, 
while it gave to Myrtice a certain feeling of gladness 
because of what she knew freedom must mean to his 
independent nature, nevertheless filled her with grave 
anxiety and sad misgivings. She knew that he would 
not have become a fugitive from justice unless his prison 
life had brought him intolerable misery. Indeed, she 
felt sure that he would not have attempted the dangers 
of escape and the ignominy of pursuit unless his suf- 
ferings had been such as to cloud his judgment and 
well-nigh to unbalance his mind. Her sorrow for her 
lover was almost more than she could bear, and her anx- 
ious, futile surmises as to where he might be or what 
he might still be suffering, drove away sleep and pen- 
cilled heavy black lines beneath her eyes. 

During these days of her anxious sorrow “ Chubby” 
Hichols proved a friend indeed. Though he was him- 
self more worried about Sherman than he cared to 
admit, with Myrtice he succeeded in maintaining a 
cheerful countenance and hopeful speech. 

“Of course, he couldn’t stay in that place,” he 
declared to her on the evening when they had so nearly 


152 


Sherman Hale 


encountered Sherman on the street. It was perhaps 
the fortieth time he had made the assurance. “He 
couldn’t stay there because he’s got too much grit. 
Think he could stand it to be locked up and ordered 
around by those duffers? Ho, sir; not by a long shot. 
I would have escaped myself if I’d been in his place — 
that is, if I’d have had the courage. Doubt if I should, 
though. I honor him, by gad !” 

This is what he said aloud to Myrtice. To himself 
he used very different language, something like this : 

“The blooming idiot! What in the world could he 
have been thinking about? How he has mussed every- 
thing. If he’d stayed quiet we’d have had him out in 
a month or two with his innocence proven. But now 
he’s skipped and the jig is all up.” 

There was another matter upon which Mr. Hichols’ 
spoken words to Myrtice were somewhat different from 
his unuttered thoughts. To her he insisted that Sher- 
man could be in no possible danger, and that it was 
“dead foolish to worry about a big strong fellow who 
was well able to take care of himself anywhere.” 

To himself he admitted the possibilities of all sorts of 
danger, the chief one being the danger of his friend’s 
losing his grip upon himself. He knew Sherman’s 
inclination to become taciturn and somewhat surly when 
he felt himself misunderstood by his fellows, and he 
was afraid that the weight of misapprehension which 
now hung over him, and which evidently had already 
driven him to the recklessness of escape, might eventu- 
ally drive him to more extreme measures. With a shud- 
der he admitted to himself the possibility of crime, or 


Merriweather’s Experiment 153 

even of suicide, and during those days he opened his 
morning and evening papers with nervous dread. 

He did not give up altogether the hope of proving 
Sherman’s innocence, however. In prison or out of 
prison, an innocent victim of circumstances, or a guilty 
fugitive from justice — aye, even though he should 
become a criminal indeed, or even in desperation should 
he take his own life, nevertheless Sherman was his 
friend. And “ Chubby” Hichols would do all he could 
to clear a friend’s name from suspicion. 

His motive of disinterested friendship was more pure 
than the frank, outspoken, boyish man permitted him- 
self to believe. For still to himself did he declare that 
his growing interest in Myrtice robbed his attempted 
efforts for his friend of much of their value of 
unselfishness. 

He witnessed the increasing pallor of Myrtice’s face 
with consternation and alarm. During one long, hide- 
ous, sleepless night he questioned whether her evident 
interest in Sherman was not more than that of a friend, 
and the morning found him as pale and haggard as 
Myrtice herself. A visit to his Club, a plunge in the 
swimming tank, a carefully chosen breakfast and a good 
cigar restored somewhat his customary cheerfulness, and 
when in the evening he again saw Myrtice she little 
guessed the trouble through which he had been pass- 
ing. 

On the Saturday evening when they had so nearly 
run into the object of the thoughts of both, they were on 
their way to the apartments of James Merriweather. 
For the little man, having heard of Myrtice’s possible 


154 


Sherman Hale 


connection with the signature on the check, would not 
give his final opinion until he had seen the girl. 

“She might have done it, you know,” he admitted, 
“though it is by no means likely. It all depends upon 
what sort of a person she is. If she is nervous and 
high-strung now, subject to spells of abstraction and the 

like, she might Bring her here, ‘Chubby/ bring 

her here, and let me size her up.” 

During the walk to the detective’s rooms “Chubby” 
did his utmost to distract Myrtice’s thoughts from the 
trying ordeal which he knew was before her. At the 
moment when Sherman had seen them approaching, the 
young man was telling her a funny story in his own 
inimitable manner, and the light laugh which had done 
so much for Sherman gave to “Chubby” a certain sense 
of relief that was almost thanksgiving. 

“If she can laugh as gaily as that at Jim’s,” he said 
to himself, “he’ll know she is the most rational, sweet 
little woman in the world. ‘Subject to fits of abstrac- 
tion!’ Bah!” 

But at first, when in the presence of Mr. Merri- 
weather, she could not laugh so gaily. Both men made 
every possible attempt to make her feel at ease, talking 
of inconsequential matters as far removed as possible 
from the subject of the signature upon the check. She 
listened to their estimate of the latest play and of the 
newest novel with grave attention; she even bore her 
part in the conversation, contributing many shrewd com- 
ments from a womanly point of view ; but through it all 
her face was serious and her manner preoccupied. At 


Merriweather’ s Experiment 155 


last she could stand the strain of suspense no longer, and 
introduced the dreaded subject herself. 

“It is very good of you to try to amuse me in this 
way,” she said with a smile, “but you know I came for a 
different purpose. Of course, your conversation is 
charming, hut ” she hesitated a little, then sud- 

denly plunged in boldly — “Mr. Merriweather, I want 
you to tell me whether you think I signed that check; 
and if I did, whether there is any way I can take the 
punishment which has fallen upon Mr. Hale.” 

Mr. Merriweather laughed. 

“I like your directness,” he declared, “though Pm not 
sure,” judicially he added, “that it is not a little con- 
trary to the usual custom of your sex. But we’ll pass 
that. You ask me a somewhat difficult question. I 
admit the possibility of an affirmative answer. Mind, 
I say only the possibility. If you did sign that check 
in a state of mental aberration, it would be the most 
interesting and unusual case that has ever come under 
my observation. 

“But there is much evidence that you did not. In 
(the first place, had you signed a piece of paper while 
your mind was temporarily under no control of your 
will, you would likely have signed the name in your 
own natural hand- writing. You see the probability is 
that you could not have used a disguised hand under 
those circumstances, unless, indeed, you had become so 
familiar with the particular disguise as to make it a 
sort of second nature with you. How I remember read- 
ing of such a case once. It was the case of a man 
who ” 


Sherman Hale 


156 . 

“Oh, chuck all that,” interrupted “Chubby” most 
impolitely. “What do we care about your old cases? 
It’s this case we want to know about. If you’re any 
good at all, tell us who signed that check that got Sher- 
man Hale into trouble.” 

Merriweather smiled imperturbably. 

“You are like all the rest,” he said with a sad shake 
of his head. “You want immediate results, and you 
are impatient with the necessary time consumed in arriv- 
ing at results. Well, let the old case go, though I assure 
you it was most interesting, most interesting, indeed. 
Miss Meredith, may I ask you some questions ?” 

“As many as you like.” 

“Thank you. Have you ever had any previous expe- 
riences of feeling that you might have done something 
in moments of unconsciousness? — you know what I 
mean — anything that resembles at all your experience 
in the study that night ?” 

“Ho, I can recall nothing,” she replied after a 
moment’s thought. 

“Humph! I thought so. How, you see, of course 
there must always be a first time for everything, so your 
answer does not prove that you didn’t do this. It is 
added evidence, however, against it.” 

“Thank you for so much,” she said, her eyes flashing 
brightly. “I don’t want to think that I did it, though 
sometimes lately I have felt I should rather believe that 
than not to know whose act it was.” 

“I quite understand you,” the detective replied sym- 
pathetically. “Suspense is intolerable. But have cour- 
age. I think I shall be able to help you. How, I am 


Merriweather’s Experiment 157 


going to suggest a simple experiment. In the first place, 
I am going to ask you to sit at my table there and make 
as correct a copy as you can of your guardian’s signa- 
ture. I want to watch your movements.” 

As she complied with his request the detective took 
out his watch. 

“Say when you are ready to begin, and tell me when 
you have finished.” 

“I’m beginning,” she said, bending her head over 
the table. The room was perfectly quiet except for the 
light scratching of her pen as it moved slowly over the 
paper. “And now I’m through.” 

“Good. You were exactly thirty seconds making that 
copy. Let me see it. Yes, you have made an excellent 
copy. The resemblance to your guardian’s signature is 
nearly perfect. 

“How for the rest of the experiment. I’m afraid I 
must cause you some inconvenience, possibly some 
fatigue. Will you please sit erect in the chair and make 
yourself as rigid as possible. Ho, don’t let your hands 
fall into your lap in that natural and easy way. Hold 
them, if you please, stiffly at your side, with all the fin- 
gers rigidly extended. There. How please look stead- 
ily at that bright reading lamp and concentrate your 
mind as far as you are able upon this one thought, ‘I’m 
going to sign my guardian’s name to a check.’ Say it 
over and over to yourself and don’t move until I give 
you permission.” 

Again there was silence in the room, while both men 
eagerly watched the rigid girl, who sat erect with her 
gaze fixed steadily upon the glow of the reading lamp. 


Sherman Hale 


158 

“ You are not going to hypnotize her, are you ?” whis- 
pered “ Chubby” in some alarm. 

“No, no, you fool. Keep still,” came the impatient 
answer. 

With his timepiece still in his hand, Mr. Merri- 
weather watched the motionless girl for full fifteen min- 
utes. At the end of that period he observed signs of 
fatigue. The stiffened fingers were relaxing. Her 
gaze began to waver, her whole body trembled ever so 
slightly. The dectective put a piece of paper before her 
on the blotting pad and handed her a pen. 

“ Write,” he commanded. “Write the name of 
Augustus Cam well.” 

He bent over her eagerly as she took the pen and 
began. ^ 

“No, no,” he interrupted her movement. “You are 
writing the name in your own hand-writing. Copy the 
signature of Augustus Camwell.” 

The girl passed her hand wearily over her forehead 
as she began again. Mr. Merriweather was still con- 
sulting his watch. Slowly and painfully the letters were 
formed, and when the signature was completed the girl 
sank back into her chair entirely exhausted. 

“Lead her to the couch and make her lie down,” 
Merriweather said to “ Chubby” as he took up the paper 
and examined the signature, “but don’t give her any 
refreshment yet.” 

A triumphant cry escaped the lips of the detective as 
he compared the signature with the one she had pre- 
viously written. But the time for self-congratulation 


Merri weather’s Experiment 159 

was not quite ripe. He crossed the room to the side of 
the couch. 

“Well, how do you feel?” he asked cheerily. 

“Very tired,” she replied, opening her eyes which had 
closed the moment her head touched the pillow. 

“I am going to give you a little wine presently, but 
first I want you to remember what you have just done. 
What is the last thing that you can recollect doing ?” 

“Writing my guardian’s name on a piece of paper,” 
she replied promptly. 

“How many times did you write the name?” 

“Once.” 

“What happened after that? Think hard.” 

“You told me to sit rigid in the chair and look at the 
reading lamp.” 

“And after that?” 

She put her hand to her head and tried to think. 

“I can’t remember anything,” she said at last, “except 
finding myself on the couch and your asking me how I 
felt.” 

“ Good ! Excellent ! ” exclaimed r the detective. “ H ow, 
‘Chubby,’ get her a little wine from the closet. After 
she is perfectly refreshed I want you both to come over 
to the desk. I have something of interest to show 
you.” 

Eive minutes later they were all looking curiously at 
the two bits of paper upon which she had copied the sig- 
nature of Augustus Camwell. 

“Do you see the difference ?” asked Mr. Merri weather. 
“It took her just sixty seconds to write the second signa- 
ture, twice as long as the time occupied with the first, 


i6o 


Sherman Hale 


and the second consequently shows signs of hesitation 
and weakness. It is not a good imitation of the pro- 
fessor’s hand-writing at all. Any fool could detect the 
difference at once.” 

“Yes, I see it,” remarked “Chubby” innocently. 

“Ha! ha!” laughed Merriweather, who was appar- 
ently in the gayest of humors. “Then I am doubly sure 
of my remark. Any fool could detect it if you can, 
‘Chubby,’ my boy.” 

“But I didn’t make but one copy of the signature,” 
remarked Myrtice. 

“Ah, that’s just it. You don’t remember the second. 
If you had remembered, the experiment would have been 
a failure. 

“Listen, and I will explain what has happened. 
When I asked you to sit rigid in the chair and to look 
intently at the lamp I reproduced as nearly as possi- 
ble the exact condition you were in on that evening in 
the professor’s study. I am not sure whether I ought 
to congratulate you or to commiserate you; but, Miss 
Meredith, you are possessed of the power of self- 
hypnotism. You seem to have hypnotized yourself that 
night. You did it again to-night.” 

“But ” she objected, puzzled. 

“Please let me finish,” he interrupted her. “In the 
hypnotized state your first impulse was to write the 
name in your own hand-writing. I had to correct that 
impulse by a sharp command. That goes to prove my 
previous theory correct. You probably could not have 
imitated your guardian’s chirography when your mind 
was temporarily out of the control of your will.” 


Merriweather’s Experiment 161 

“But I did copy it, it seems, after you had com- 
manded it.” 

“Yes; or to be more accurate, you tried to copy it. 
You failed in the attempt. The copy is imperfect. In 
that state you couldn’t do it. Your hand responded too 
slowly. The letters were trembly and ill-formed. Miss 
Meredith, if it is any consolation to you to know it, I 
am most happy to inform you that it would have been 
an actual impossibility for you to sign that name to 
the check which has brought to your friend so much 
trouble.” 

“Oh, I am so glad,” she murmured, as she sank into 
her chair and folded her hands across her breast. 

“And I, too, am glad,” exclaimed “Chubby,” slapping 
Merriweather upon the back in the exuberance of his 
feeling. “Do you know, ‘Merry/ I really believe you 
are not such a blooming fool after all. But now, who 
did do it?” 

The detective shrugged his shoulders. 

“We mustn’t go too fast,” he admonished. “We have 
eliminated two possibilities and I think there are only 
two left.” 

“What two ?” 

“Do you mean what two are eliminated ? Why, Sher- 
man Hale — his chirography makes him an utter im- 
possibility — and now we have eliminated Miss Mere- 
dith.” 

“But I mean what two are left?” demanded 
“Chubby” with some impatience. 

“Oh, well, there is the possibility of Barrington. His 
hand is peculiarly feminine, and I have not yet been 


162 


Sherman Hale 


able to prove conclusively to my own satisfaction that 
he is not the guilty man.” 

“And the other possibility?” asked “Chubby” 
eagerly. 

“It is rather shadowy,” replied the detective with a 
characteristic shrug. Then suddenly he apparently lost 
all interest in the matter. Hot a word more could the 
importunate “Chubby” get from him, and at last, some- 
what testily, that young man suggested to Myrtice that 
they had better take their departure. 

“He’s a stubborn chap,” he confided to the girl as 
together they descended the stairs to the street. “I don’t 
see why he mightn’t just as well say he is ready to give 
evidence against Barrington now as to keep us waiting 
longer.” 

“But he said I didn’t do it, anyway,” Myrtice 
reminded him, “and he has made me believe it. In 
some ways I am happier to-night than I have been since 
Sherman went away. But poor Sherman! Where do 
you suppose he is now ?” 


CHAPTER XVII 


THE LURE OF DARK WATERS 

At the moment when “ Chubby” Nichols and Myrtice 
left the apartments of Mr. Merriweather the escaped 
prisoner was still lying fully dressed upon the bed in his 
dingy room in the North End hoarding house. The 
brief sleep of exhaustion had passed and with it there 
had gone all sense of physical discomfort. No longer 
did he feel the pangs of hunger which had so nearly 
overcome him earlier in the evening on the street. But 
in place of physical pain there had come to him a men- 
tal agony, the anguish of a suddenly awakened and 
unreasoning distrust. 

No doubt of his sweetheart’s loyalty would have 
entered his mind had he been quite himself. But in his 
weakened condition he could not resist the unwelcome 
intruder. 

“Oh, Myrtice,” he groaned, as he sat upon the bed 
and glared into the darkness of his room, “I thought 
you were so true and noble.” 

He reviewed the weary remembrance of her willing- 
ness to let him suffer for what he supposed was her own 
act. Once more he remembered her refusal to answer 
his humble and passionate letters, and now she could 
laugh gaily with “Chubby” Nichols — “Chubby” Nich- 


Sherman Hale 


164 

ols of all men! And “ Chubby” had called himself his 
friend ! 

Then, suddenly, there came a complete revulsion of 
feeling. The mere thought of Myrtice, accompanied 
even by bitterness, awoke in his heart an intense long- 
ing to see her again. To see her but once! If she 
would allow it, to take her in his arms ; but if that was 
expecting too much, just to look at her, and to beg her 
forgiveness for his momentary distrust. 

The newly-born clamoring desire to see her so con- 
trolled him, that for a time he forgot that he was a jail- 
breaker. He did not remember that to make himself 
known, even to Myrtice, he must incur great risks of 
detection. Hor did he just then reckon with the thought 
that perhaps she might refuse even to see him. 

“ Myrtice, Myrtice, I must see you,” he shouted aloud 
as he jumped from the bed. “I must see you, and I 
will ” 

It is an added evidence to the temporary irresponsi- 
bility of the man that he did not think of the lateness 
of the hour, and of the consequent impossibility of see- 
ing Myrtice that night. Just as in the prison this once 
stalwart man had become controlled by the ideas of 
escape and of vengeance, so now, with these former ideas 
completely blotted from his memory, he was obsessed 
by the one idea of seeing his sweetheart. 

Had he looked at the clock in the jewelry store at the 
corner, he would have noted that it was already eleven 
when he staggered by, intent upon the fulfillment of his 
mad impulse. It must have been a full half hour later 
when, haggard and worn and weary, he tried to pull 


The Lure of Dark Waters 165 


himself together upon the door steps of the familiar 
house on Beacon Street. 

But there he suddenly lost his courage. With his 
hand groping for the button of the electric hell, he 
remembered who he was, and what he had become. An 
escaped prisoner ! A man with an assumed name and in 
disguise! With an angry oath he tore off the false 
beard and thrust it into his pocket. Then, squaring his 
shoulders in the clear cold air, he laughed aloud with 
quick joy in the momentary, though partial recovery of 
his lost manhood. 

Yet still his groping, feverish hand refused to press 
the button, for as he stood where so often he had had a 
right to stand, the elation of his freedom from the hated 
disguise passed away as quickly as it had come. A great 
shame overwhelmed him. For the first time he was able 
to think of his escape from prison as he now knew that 
others must think of it. In the environment of his old 
home he saw clearly the unmanliness of his deed. Here 
he knew himself to be a craven fool, an ignoble, mean, 
despicable thing, afraid to bear his own name, ashamed 
of his own face, a cringing coward skulking from 
justice. 

With a groan of inexpressible self-loathing he sank 
upon the cold stone steps and covered his face with his 
hands. 

“Hello, what’s this ?” The voice sounded in his very 
ear, and he felt a hand roughly laid upon his shoulder. 

“Thank God,” was his first thought, “it is an officer 
to take me back where I can finish my term of imprison- 
ment like a man.” 


i66 


Sherman Hale 


When Sherman lifted his drawn, pale face, the man 
who had accosted him fell hack with a cry of amaze- 
ment. “My God ! It’s Sherman Hale,” muttered Mr. 
J. Adams Barrington. “Sherman Hale on the steps of 
his own home.” 

For a moment Barrington was in doubt as to how he 
should act. He remembered the reward offered for 
Sherman’s recapture and he thought greedily of what 
the money would do for him in the payment of certain 
gambling debts which were beginning to press upon him 
most heavily. But he knew also that Mr. Hichols and 
Myrtice were trying to prove Sherman’s innocence, and 
he feared that simply to send the fugitive back to prison 
would in the end only hasten his return to the favor of 
the girl he desired for himself. Something different 
he must plan — something that would be more sure. 

“Well, why don’t you say something?” queried Sher- 
man weakly. “Why are you staring at me that way? 
Who are you anyway ?” 

“I’m your uncle’s private secretary,” replied the 
other, having at last found his voice. 

“So you know me then?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, what are you going to do about it?” 

“Why are you here?” parried the secretary. 

“Because I’m a fool,” was the bitter reply. 

“I should say so. Do you know that I have but to 
call a policeman and you will go back to prison ?” 

“Yes, and I wish you would do it,” answered Sher- 
man wearily, as he dropped his head upon his hand. “I 
wish to God you would do it.” 


The Lure of Dark Waters 167 


“You are faint and hungry,” hazarded Mr. Barring- 
ton, as he looked at the weakened man almost with pity. 
“Come with me and get something to eat.” 

•Sherman made no movement. 

“Come,” the other said with something like gentle- 
ness. “We’ll take a cab and go to the other end of the 
city for a bite. You’ll be safe there. Come on.” 

He touched Sherman’s shoulder as he spoke, and the 
miserable sufferer, too weak to offer resistance, followed 
obediently. On the corner of the street Mr. Barring- 
ton hailed a cab, and giving the first direction that sug- 
gested itself to his mind, he ordered the driver to take 
them to the Horth Station. Arrived there, he dismissed 
the cab, and taking Sherman by the arm he led him 
down Atlantic Avenue towards the wharves. 

The few pedestrians whom he met gave them but pass- 
ing glances. Evidently the big man with his drooping 
head and shambling gait was intoxicated, and the 1 
smaller one was his friend leading him home. Once 
a policeman hailed the pair and asked if he could be 
of any assistance. But Barrington shook his head, and 
they were allowed to pass on. A drunken man being 
led home by a friend is, unfortunately, not so uncom- 
mon a sight as to excite suspicion. 

The two men paused before the door of a cheap all- 
night restaurant. 

“Are you hungry ? Do you want to go in ?” Mr. 
Barrington asked. It was the first word he had spoken 
to his companion since they had entered the cab. To his 
surprise, the man made no reply. 

Weakened by hunger and exhausted by the severe 


i68 


Sherman Hale 


experiences of the evening, Sherman Hale had sunk into 
complete unconsciousness of his surroundings. He was 
leaning heavily upon the arm of his conductor, and his 
footsteps had become automatic. 

It was at that moment, when he observed Sherman’s 
complete collapse, that the temptation gripped the weak- 
ened conscience of Mr. Barrington. Grasping the arm 
of the nearly unconscious man, he supported him down 
the empty street until they came to a dark and deserted 
coal wharf. Down the narrow passageway which 
flanked the grim walls of the coal shed the two stumbled 
on. And the gurgling, swishing sound of the black 
water close beside them gave audible voice to the temp- 
tation which had assailed Barrington at the door of the 
restaurant. 

It was a horrible sound, that swishing of restless 
waters. Barrington tried to shut the sound from his 
ears, hut he could not. The lure of the water was call- 
ing him on. With one part of his nature revolting in 
abhorrence, hut with the other part yielding in fascina- 
tion, he pulled his tottering companion forward, and 
the sound of the moving waters made no impression at 
all upon the benumbed brain of the man he was leading. 

But suddenly the noise of swift footsteps on the 
heavy planking fell upon the strained ears of Barring- 
ton, who, by this time, had become half-crazed by the 
luring, repelling swish of the waters which he could not 
shut from his ears. Mortally terrified at the approach- 
ing footsteps, he forced Sherman to stand still, and with 
wildly heating heart listened in painful intentness. 
"Without doubt the footsteps were approaching rapidly. 


The Lure of Dark Waters 169 

Someone evidently was following them down the dark 

passage. 

In a perfect frenzy of fear, Barrington ronghly flung 
himself free from the weight of Sherman’s inert body, 
giving no heed to where the body might fall, and with 
a stifled cry of terror he rushed swiftly up the wharf 
towards the street. He almost ran into the man whose 
footsteps had caused him such consternation, hut appar- 
ently the man did not notice him. 

When the secretary emerged from the dark shadow of 
the coal sheds, with a supreme effort he stopped his run- 
ning, but he could not stop the tumultuous heating of 
his heart, nor could he bring the color hack into his 
blanched face. He met a policeman who was hurrying 
towards him. 

“Hid you hear any noise on the wharf just now?” 
the policeman asked, eyeing him suspiciously. 

“Ho, sir,” Barrington replied truthfully, with trem- 
bling voice. “But I have not been very near the wharf,” 
he added eagerly. “I only stepped into the lee of the 
building there to light a cigarette.” 

“But you are not smoking,” the policeman objected. 

“Ho; my last match blew out,” the other answered 
with a vain attempt to appear at ease. “Can you lend 
me one ?” 

The policeman gave him the match, but he still eyed 
the man suspiciously as he stood aside to let him pass on. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE 

Other incidents of importance to the life of Sherman 
Hale were transpiring on that eventful Saturday night. 

Very early that evening, perhaps not later than seven 
o’clock, a patrolman in the Horth End reported to the 
captain of his district his suspicions that a man living 

in a tenement on B Street, under the name of 

Thomas Harrigan, was a fugitive in disguise. It seems 
that the landlady of the house, in the course of a confi- 
dential chat with the policeman, had declared that her 
hoarder was a “queer one,” and after a little cajoling 
and raillery, she had confessed that the night before 
she had seen him through the keyhole of his door with- 
out the beard which he continually wore by day. 

The captain of the police made note of the officer’s 
suspicions and when the night patrolman of that vicin- 
ity went on duty he was ordered to watch the house and 
the stranger. 

The night officer arrived on his beat while Sherman 
was wandering around in the vicinity of Beacon Street. 
He later saw the man go into the house in the nervous, 
distraught condition which had followed his temptation. 

“Does act queer,” was the patrolman’s mental com- 
ment. “Don’t seem to be drunk, but ain’t just right 
somehow.” 


Circumstantial Evidence 


171 

The officer was still watching the house when at 
eleven o’clock the suspected man again emerged and 
rushed off in a frenzied manner in the direction of the 
Common. Not being free to leave his own beat to 
shadow Sherman, the patrolman stepped into a tele- 
phone booth and gave his description of the man to head- 
quarters, stating what direction the man had taken. 
A plainclothes man was immediately sent out to track 
the suspected character. 

After some annoying delays, the detective, by the 
simple process of interrogating different patrolmen, 
succeeded in picking up Sherman’s trail and in fol- 
lowing him clear to the corner of Beacon and Arlington 
Streets. He arrived at this point just in time to catch 
Mr. Barrington in the act of putting the suspect into 
a cab. 

The light of an arc burner fell full upon the haggard 
unbearded face of the fugitive, causing the pursuing offi- 
cer to utter an ejaculation of surprise. 

“I believe it’s Hale, the escaped prisoner from Con- 
cord,” he muttered, his trained eyes having detected at 
once the resemblance to the missing prisoner’s portrait. 
“This may be something worth while.” 

He tried to find a cab in which to follow the pair, but 
none was immediately available. Cursing beneath his 
breath at this additional delay, the officer ran down 
Arlington Street to Boylston. To find a cab and give 
the driver the direction which he had overheard Bar- 
rington give to his cabman entailed the loss of several 
more precious moments, and when the exasperated offi- 
cial at last reached the North Station, the cab he was 


172 


Sherman Hale 


pursuing had already turned away and its two occu- 
pants had disappeared. 

Naturally thinking that his quarry was planning to 
take some train, still more precious time was consumed 
by the detective in a hurried search of the passenger 
rooms and the train sheds. It was fully quarter past 
twelve when by the aid of the observant night patrol- 
men, he again picked up the trail of the two men, and 
perhaps it was fifteen minutes later when he approached 
the vicinity of the coal wharf on Atlantic Avenue. 

Barrington had freed himself from the suspicious 
policeman who had given him the unneeded match, and 
was walking rapidly along the Avenue two blocks away, 
when the plainclothes man on the other side of the 
street caught sight of his face beneath a flickering arc 
light. 

“One moment, please,” the official said, running 
across the street and tapping Barrington on the shoul- 
der. The man’s first impulse was to break away and 
run for it. But his second thought was more prudent. 
He turned to the intruder with an air of injured 
innocence. 

“What do you want of me ?” he demanded angrily. 

“I want you to tell me what you have done with your 
companion,” came the astounding reply. 

Drops of cold perspiration started to Mr. Barrington’s 
face, but he did not quite lose control of his voice. 
“What companion?” he stammered. 

“The big man with smooth face whom you put into a 
cab on Arlington Street less than an hour ago.” 

“How did you know ?” Barrington gasped, surprised 


Circumstantial Evidence 


173 


into self-betrayal. But he recovered himself immedi- 
ately. “I left him in a restaurant three blocks back,” 
he answered. 

“Very well. Come with me, I want you to take me to 
him.” 

“But what do you want of him?” The frightened sec- 
retary was playing desperately for time. 

“No matter.” The detective threw back his coat and 
showed his policeman’s badge. “Come.” 

He took the little man somewhat roughly by the arm 
and led him most reluctantly back towards the wharf. 
The plight of Mr. Barrington was most pitiable, the 
more so because in his nervous fear his brain was refus- 
ing to work clearly. He could think of no way whereby 
he could save himself from his predicament. As it 
proved, however, he need not have worried, for the 
settlement of his affairs was taken out of his hands by 
others. 

The plainclothes man with his unwilling companion 
were met by the patrolman who had just allowed Bar- 
rington to pass on. 

“Hello, Larry, what’s up?” the patrolman asked 
familiarly. 

“This man is taking me to see a friend of his,” the 
detective replied with a knowing wink. 

The patrolman looked at the speaker’s cringing com- 
panion curiously. 

“By God !” he exclaimed. “He’s the same little cuss 
that asked me for a match a few minutes ago. Came out 
from behind the coal shed there, but said he’d only 
stopped in the lee of the building to light a cigarette.” 


174 


Sherman Hale 


“He’d been behind the coal buildings, had he ? Said 
he’d been trying to light a cigarette ? Say, bub, suppose 
you show us your cigarette case. Why didn’t you light 
up with the match Bill here gave you V 9 

Poor Barrington, who was not a smoker at all, and 
who naturally had no cigarettes by him, looked the 
embarrassment he felt. 

“See here, sonny, there’s something nasty about this. 
You hain’t got a cigarette by you, and you went behind 
the coal shed for some other reason. Your pal ain’t in 
no restaurant either. He’s somewhere else, and it’s up 
to you to say where.” 

“Did he have a pal?” the patrolman asked with 
interest. 

“Yes, they came down this way in a cab and disap- 
peared together at the North Station.” 

“By God, Larry, I heard something that sounded like 
a splash in the water about two minutes before this kid 
came out from behind the coal sheds.” 

“Then it’s up to us to find out what’s happened. 
Come on.” 

The two officials, leading the terrified youth between 
them, walked rapidly down the wharf. Half way down 
the passageway Barrington tried to stop them, crying 
out in his desperation, “He ain’t down any farther — 
he’s here.” 

“Here, your granny!” exclaimed the detective con- 
temptuously, with his keen eye already fixed upon a 
black object lying near the end of the wharf. “Bub, 
you ain’t acting just right about this. It’s best for you 
to come on and keep still.” 


Circumstantial Evidence 


175 


The black object proved to be a man’s derby hat. 
“ That’s the kind of a hat your pal had on, my boy, as 
sure as I’m a sinner. And now, where’s the man ?” 

But by this time Barrington was beyond the power 
of speech. Sinking upon the abutment of the wharf, 
he covered his face with his hands and began to trem- 
ble. Both men looked at him in disgust. 

“You watch him,” said the man called “Larry” 
briefly. “I’ll take a look around.” 

So saying he threw himself down upon the planks and 
peered over into the deep black water. As his eyes 
became accustorped to the gloom, he finally discerned a 
shapeless mass which the restless incoming tide was 
bumping against the huge piles of the wharf. A loud 
“Hello” from the policeman aroused some sleeping men 
on a vessel docked at the wharf. A lowered grapple, the 
pulling up of a heavy weight, and there lay upon the 
wharf the dead body of a man. 

He was a large man with smooth-shaven face and 
haggard, sunken eyes. He wore a gray suit and a dark 
overcoat. Barrington gave the body one hurried glance 
and turned away shuddering convulsively. 

“I’m afraid, my young man,” said Mr. O’Connell 
in his smoothest tone, “I shall have to arrest you and 
take you to the police station.” 

“On what charge?” stammered the unhappy man 
looking about him wildly, perhaps still indulging in the 
foolish hope that there might be some escape. 

“On the charge, if you must know,” replied the officer 
quietly, “of the murder of Sherman Hale, lately escaped 
from Concord Beformatory.” 


Sherman Hale 


176 

“But,” gasped the suspected man in protestation, “I 

— left — Sherman — Hale ” 

“Shut up, you fool. Don’t incriminate yourself here. 
Come with me.” 


CHAPTER XIX 


THE HEBMIT OF NAHANT 

The dark sky over the buildings and wharfs of East 
Poston was becoming gradually tinged with red and 
with gold when an old man, staggering beneath the 
weight of a heavy sack, shuffled down the narrow pas- 
sageway between the coal elevator and the water. 
Though the man’s gait was that of one more familiar 
with the decks of rolling vessels than with the hard, 
firm ground, his carriage was easy and his body was 
erect in spite of the heavy burden which he bore upon 
his shoulder. 

At a rough wooden ladder near the end of the wharf 
the man paused and deposited his sack upon the heavy 
planks. He peered over the edge of the wharf into the 
water and in the darkness was able to discern the out- 
line of a little skiff tied to the mooring. Satisfied that 
everything was as he had left it in the early evening of 
the preceding day, he took from the pocket of his well- 
worn ulster a small coil of heavy fish line. With a true 
sailor’s hitch he tied the line about the mouth of the sack 
and lowered it carefully into the bottom of the skiff. He 
scrambled down the ladder himself with an agility that 
belied the age suggested by his long gray hair and beard, 
and in a moment more he had untied and cast off his 
boat. He skilfully guided it out into the open water 


Sherman Hale 


178 

with a single oar manipulated at the stern, while he 
stood erect peering out into the dispersing gloom of the 
dawning day for any vessel that might lie in his way. 

A gentle breeze fanned his left cheek when he was 
outside the lee of the protecting wharf, and with the 
rapidity of one familiar with his occupation the man 
hoisted his sail. He complacently filled and lighted 
his blackened clay pipe, and though the chill of the 
wintry morning would have been intolerable to most 
people, with his bare gnarled hand upon the tiller, rhyth- 
mically emitting little puffs of smoke from beneath his 
shaggy mustache, he sat contentedly in the stern of his 
little vessel, watching the approach of the sun in peace- 
ful enjoyment. 

As his boat sped lightly over the water, he began to 
hum beneath his breath the melody of a familiar hymn. 
When he had made his final tack and had headed his 
craft exactly before the wind in the direction of Hahant, 
the rising sun greeted him with a rosy smile of welcome. 
The glory of the familiar sight filled the old man’s heart 
with awe and reverence, and the tune which he had been 
humming broke forth into melodious words of adoration, 

“Praise God, from whom all blessings flow, 
“Praise Him all creatures here below.” 

The breeze stiffened as the little craft glided peace- 
fully on its way, and the sun was scarcely half an hour 
high when he brought to the vessel in a tiny cove off 
the shore of Hahant. The sailor, still humming his 
tuneful praises, made his little craft fast to the buoy 


The Hermit of Nahant 


179 


at which was moored a punt. He lowered his flap- 
ping sail and carefully furled it. Drawing the dancing 
punt alongside, he put into it the heavy sack. Then he 
reached for the old sail cloth with which he was accus- 
tomed to cover his skiff that all might be tight and snug. 

The psalm tune stopped abruptly. The pipe fell from 
his mouth, but he instinctively caught it in his hand 
before it reached the floor. The old grizzled lips formed 
themselves into a whistle of astonishment. 

“A man asleep!” he ejaculated. “Most likely some 
poor drunken fellow who tried to find shelter in my boat 
and crawled under the old sail cloth to keep warm. 
Poor man ! Poor man !” 

But when he bent lower over the prostrate form, his 
practiced eye discerned that this was no ordinary stupor 
of intoxication. 

“Played out, completely done for,” he said, following 
his custom of speaking aloud, though there was only 
himself to hear his words. “Oh, Father of all pity, look 
at that face. How the poor fellow has suffered, and 
he’s not more than a boy.” 

He gently shook the shoulders of the sleeping man, 
and when at length the heavy eyes opened he spoke 
kindly. “Are you strong enough to get up and get into 
my punt?” 

There was no answer. The bewildered eyes looked 
into his face but for an instant, then the heavy lids 
dropped again. 

The old sailor took from the pocket of his great coat a 
flask and forced a little brandy between the lips of the 
unconscious man. He chafed the cold hands with his 


i8o 


Sherman Hale 


own. He worked the arms back and forth, up and down. 
He shook the shoulders again, gently at first, then more 
violently. By and by his patient efforts were rewarded. 
The stranger opened his eyes. The expression of the 
face was still one of hopeless bewilderment, but the man 
was enough recovered to respond feebly to the other’s 
effort to help him rise. 

The strong sailor lifted rather than helped his uncon- 
scious guest into the little punt ; and when all had been 
made snug at the skiff he jumped in after him and 
sculled rapidly to the nearby shore, fringed with a heavy 
tangle of wild scrub oaks. 

Here, in a rough cabin built upon the flat top of what 
had once been a floating wharf, lived the “hermit of 
Nahant.” If the old sailor possessed any other name, 
no man had ever heard it. If he had friends or rela- 
tives, none of the Nahant people knew of their exis- 
tence. If he ever had visitors, no one, not even the 
most curious of the boys, ever saw them. And where 
the hermit himself went on his periodic nightly visits 
to Boston in the little skiff with the old sack, no gos- 
sip seeker could ever discover. 

Some time before the punt touched the pebbly beach 
the return of the hermit was heralded by the loud, joy- 
ful barking of a dog locked up in the improvised house- 
boat. And when the door was unlocked the delight of 
the huge Newfoundland knew no bounds. 

“Down, down, Major,” the hermit commanded. 
“Don’t you see we have a guest? Away, sir, and let 
me help our friend into the house.” 

The dog sniffed the clothes of the strange man suspi- 


The Hermit of Nahant 181 

ciously, and looked up into his master’s face with wide- 
open, astonished eyes. 

“No, you don’t know him, Major, and I don’t know 
him, but he’s a man in trouble, and that’s enough for 
us, isn’t it, old boy ? I guess we can make a place for 
him to hunk, and maybe we can get enough for him to 
eat. And when he’s strong again he can tell us as much 
about himself as he wants to. Kind of strange for you 
and me to have company, isn’t it, now ? But it’s got to 
be this time, Major.” 

Thus, prattling cheerfully to the dog, the hermit of 
Kahant supported into the hut the falling body of him 
whom he had called his guest. He laid the half-conscious 
man upon his own hunk in a corner near the old cracked 
cook stove. Then he rebuilt the fire and busied himself 
with the preparation of a frugal breakfast, humming 
cheerfully the while the familiar hymn with which he 
had greeted the rising sun: 

“ Praise God from whom all blessings flow.” 


CHAPTER XX. 


A DISMAL SUNDAY 

It was not “Chubby” Nichols’ habit to rise very early 
on any morning, but on Sundays he allowed himself to 
be particularly lazy. On the morning following the suc- 
cessful experiment in the rooms of Merriweather, Mr. 
Nichols did not open his eyes until nearly ten o’clock. 
He awoke with a heavy head. Perhaps the few hours 
at the Club after he had left Myrtice accounted for the 
heaviness. Or, maybe his dreams of the girl, dreams of 
alternate hope and despair, were sufficient cause for his 
waking feeling of fatigue. At any rate, it was of Myr- 
tice that he thought first. 

“It was worth five years of my life to get that smile 
of thanks when she bade me good-night,” he murmured 
to himself, “but the worst of it is I didn’t deserve the 
thanks. It was ‘Old Merry’ who had to convince her 
that she didn’t do it. Curse it all, what good am I any- 
way ? Here all these weeks have passed with Sherman 
still in disgrace, wandering God only knows where, and 
what have I done to help him? Why must ‘Merry’ be 
so slow anyway ?” 

Realizing that his thoughts were somewhat rambling 
and that he was still unrefreshed and sleepy, he turned 
over on his pillow with a grunt and tried to compose 
himself for another nap. He was just sinking into a 


A Dismal Sunday 183 

delicious doze when a loud peal of his door bell called 
him back to consciousness. 

“Hang it all,” he grumbled, “who in time has so lit- 
tle sense as to call at this unearthly hour ?” 

He sat up in bed and awaited the announcement of his 
servant with unconcealed annoyance. The annoyance 
gave place to alarm, however, when his man came in and 
gravely handed him a card. 

“Miss Myrtice Meredith.” 

“Tor God’s sake, what can be the matter ?” he ejacu- 
lated, as he sprang out of bed and hurried with his 
dressing. “Quick, man, quick,” he urged his valet. 
“Ho, no bath, no shave, just my clothes as quick as 
possible.” 

When ten minutes later he entered his little reception 
room, he found his caller standing by the window gazing 
out into the street. With words of cordial greeting upon 
his lips he rushed towards her with outstretched hands. 
'At the sound of his footsteps she turned her face from 
the window. His hands fell nerveless to his side. The 
cheery words of greeting were unuttered. 

“Miss Meredith,” he gasped. “In heaven’s name, 
tell me what is the matter? Are you ill? Have you 
seen a ghost? Won’t you let me give you a glass of 
wine? What is it? What is it?” 

In his eagerness to help her he unconsciously put his 
hands upon her shoulders and gently pushed her back 
upon the divan. As beneath his touch she allowed her 
body to relax upon the cushion a newspaper fell from 
her lap to the floor. 


Sherman Hale 


184 

“That! That!” she said, pointing to the paper with 
a gesture of unspeakable horror. 

He picked up the paper and took it to the window, an 
instinctive dread causing him to turn his back to her 
while he should read it. 

It was on the first page of the paper in staring head- 
lines : 

“MURDER! Sherman Hale, the Escaped Convict, 
pushed into the water and drowned. The dead body 
recovered by Officer O’Connell of the local police ! The 
murderer the private secretary of Hale’s uncle ! A girl 
probably figures in the motive for the crime !” 

“ Chubby” did not read any more, but he still kept his 
face turned from the girl upon the divan. 

“Well, why don’t you speak?” she almost shrieked, 
as running forward she took him by the arm and with 
agonizing eyes tried to peer into his face. “Why don’t 
you say something ?” 

“Chubby” looked into those eyes and forced a smile 
of reassurance. 

“Probably it isn’t true,” he lied, as he led her again 
to the divan. “This paper is one of the yellowest of the 
yellow. Where did you get it ?” 

“When I came down stairs this morning,” she said, 
“I stepped outside the door for a breath of fresh air and 
a newsboy thought I wanted a paper. He rushed up and 
thrust that in my face — and — and — I — saw — the — 
name.” 

“Then you came right here?” 

“Yes, just as soon as I could. I — didn’t — know — 
what — else — to — do,” she stammered. “You see I 


A Dismal Sunday 


185 

couldn’t tell Uncle Camwell. He would just go all to 
pieces and not be able to do anything, and — you — have 
— been — so — kind — that — I thought ” 

“You did just right,” he assured her. “How, leave 
it with me, will you % I’m going to give you a glass of 
wine, then you go right home, eat a hearty breakfast 
if you can, and try to rest. I’ll go out and find out all 
about it, and this afternoon I’ll come and tell you. Will 
you trust me ?” 

“Yes,” she replied simply. 

But he could not drive the look of horror from her 
eyes, and he was very anxious for her as he left her at 
her guardian’s door, and set out upon his gruesome 
quest. 

Some of the other papers which he bought and hastily 
perused were not so sure of murder. The conservative 
papers said that it might have been suicide, though Mr. 
J. Adams Barrington had been held under suspicious 
circumstances. These same legitimate dispensers of 
news did not suggest a woman as the motive of the 
crime, that detail being the product of the fertile imag- 
ination of a newspaper reporter. But all the papers 
gave the name of the drowned man as Sherman Hale, 
while some of them gave a detailed account of the dis- 
covery by the police of the fugitive’s identity. 

At police headquarters Mr. Uichols could learn but 
little more than was told by the newspapers. With some 
difficulty he succeeded in obtaining an interview both 
with Larry O’Connell and with William Barnes, the 
patrolman who had given Barrington the match. Both 
of these officials substantiated the newspaper reports, 


i86 


Sherman Hale 


and “Chubby” had to admit that the circumstantial evi- 
dence of their testimony was very much against the lit- 
tle secretary. 

With more difficulty still, and only after the judicious 
use of certain “pulls” with prison officials of his 
acquaintance, Mr. Nichols succeeded in obtaining an 
interview with Mr. Barrington in the prison cell. 

He found the little man in a most pitiful state of 
nervous dread. 

“Well, how goes it, my friend?” Mr. Nichols began 
kindly, as he extended his hand. “Don’t you remember 
me?” 

“Yes, yes,” the terrified man replied, grasping his 
hand and wringing it fiercely. “You are the gentle- 
man who helped me in the Club. Oh, God, I wish you 
could help me now. Will you help me, sir ? Will you 
help me ?” 

The abject pleading of the man was most disgusting, 
and “Chubby” involuntarily turned away his head. 

“Whether I can help you or not depends upon what 
you can tell me,” he said coldly. “I’ve come to ask you 
a few questions.” 

“Ask them, ask them. I’ll tell you everything, sir, 
everything. I didn’t kill Sherman Hale. I only left 
him on the wharf. I didn’t kill him. I tell you I 
didn’t do it.” 

“You were with him last night then?” 

“Yes. I was coming home about half past eleven and 
I found him upon the doorsteps of Professor Camwell’s 
house.” 

“And what did you do with him?” 


A Dismal Sunday 187 

“I persuaded him to go away with me to get some- 
thing to eat. He seemed faint from hunger, sir, and I 
couldn’t bear to see him so.” 

“ Spare your reasons. Tell me the facts. Where did 
you take him V 9 

“In a cab to the Horth Station, and afterwards to an 
all-night restaurant on Atlantic Avenue. But when I 
got there he wouldn’t go in to eat.” 

“Why not?” 

“He was half unconscious, I think. He didn’t seem 
to know where he was.” 

“Then you got him a glass of wine, I hope, and 
braced him up a bit V 9 

“Ho, sir.” 

“What! You could see a man in that condition and 
not help him V 9 

The secretary hung his head in evident embarrass- 
ment. 

“Why don’t you speak, man?” demanded “Chubby” 
impatiently. “What did you do when you found him 
too far gone to be able to eat ?” 

“I — took — him — down — to — the — wharf,” stam- 
mered the frightened man. 

“Oh, you did. What for?” 

“I — wanted — to — get — rid — of — him.” 

“You damned scoundrel. And why did you want to 
get rid of him ?” 

“ I — would rather not tell that,” the harassed man 
whined piteously. “Must I tell you all that?” 

“Yes, tell me all,” came the stern rejoinder. 


i88 


Sherman Hale 


“He was in love with Miss Meredith.” The words 
were almost whispered. 

“Damn you, sir. Suppose he was, what was that to 
you ?” 

“She — she — I wanted her myself,” blurted out the 
miserable fellow. 

“Chubby” rose and began to pace rapidly back and 
forth across the narrow cell. Finally he paused and 
stood over the cowering man, his face distorted with 
anger, his gestures most menacing. 

“By God ! I could kill you for that. You miserable 
skunk — you toad — you reptile. You wanted her 
yourself, did you ? And so you pushed a weak, sick man 
into the water! And you live and breathe and tell of 
it. You ” 

The prisoner fell upon his knees and tried to speak, 
but “Chubby” spurned him with his foot, and turning 
upon his heel walked rapidly out of the cell. 

“There is one satisfaction,” he mumbled, as he strode 
angrily down the street. “He’ll probably get what he 
deserves. Jove! To think that such a man can 
live!” 

His next call was at the morgue. He gazed long and 
earnestly at the upturned face of the dead man. It was 
a pinched, wan face. Plentiful hair, which perhaps had 
once been wavy, lay matted upon the forehead. A dark 
bruise discolored the face, stretching almost across the 
sunken eyes. 

“My God, how he must have suffered to have come 
to that!” he murmured as he drew his sleeve across 
his eyes. “He weighed two hundred pounds in college, 


A Dismal Sunday 189 

and that thing won’t weigh more than one hundred and 
thirty. My God! My God!” 

“You recognize him?” the official ashed as “Chubhy” 
left the gruesome presence. 

“Yes,” he replied. “Were there any personal effects 
about him ?” 

“Not a thing. _ The pockets absolutely empty.” 

“Well, we’ll send an undertaker down in an hour.” 
“And the casket shall be sealed,” he added to him- 
self, as he hailed a cab to carry the sad news to Myrtice. 
“She shall not look at that. It was almost too much 
even for me.” 


CHAPTER XXI. 


THE PHILOSOPHY OF A MAN AT PEACE 

It was the first day of February when the sick man in 
the hermit’s hut opened his eyes to complete conscious- 
ness of his surroundings. What he saw about him did 
not make a beautiful picture, but to his weary soul it 
was the promise of rest. 

The old cook stove was broken and rusty, hut within 
the stove there crackled a merrily blazing fire of drift- 
wood; while upon the stove a bubbling kettle of water 
sang contentedly. On one side of the stove a great New- 
foundland snored peacefully upon his outstretched paws. 
In an old arm-chair in front of the hearth sat a man 
with thick, grizzled beard and long white hair. He was 
reading from a book which he held tenderly, almost rev- 
erently. As he read he blew rhythmical rings of smoke 
from a blackened clay pipe, and the expression of his 
old and wrinkled face was that of peace. 

Beyond and above the singing kettle on the stove, the 
eyes of the tired man fell upon a book shelf in the cor- 
ner of the hut, and the shelf was filled with volumes. 
At the left of the book shelf there was a tiny window, 
through which he could catch glimpses of flurrying snow. 
Still farther to the left was a door tightly shut, with all 
the cracks protected by strips of listing. Moving his 
eyes indolently to the side of the hut opposite his bunk, 


The Philosophy of a Man at Peace 191 


the man saw a rough pine table upon which were neatly 
piled some coarse dishes and cooking utensils. And 
above the table, through another tiny window, he list- 
lessly watched the snow piling up in fleecy whiteness 
upon the outer ledge. 

If he had not been too tired and sleepy to care to 
estimate distances, the sick man would have correctly 
guessed the total dimensions of the room to he not more 
than twelve by ten feet. But the whistling of the 
wind without was mingling with the crackling of the 
fire and the humming of the kettle within, all harmoni- 
ously singing to him a peaceful, soothing lullaby. With 
a sigh of supreme content he closed his heavy eyes and 
went to sleep. 

The man with the grizzled beard was still reading 
when again the sick man awoke. The dog still slept by 
the crackling fire, the kettle was singing its endless lull- 
aby of rest. But the light from the snow-oovered win- 
dows had given place to the softened glow of a single, 
shaded lamp which stood upon the table by the reader’s 
elbow. 

The sick man found that this time his eyelids were 
no longer heavy, and gradually his sensation of content 
became modified by a feeling of mild curiosity. 

“Where am I?” he asked aloud, after he had gazed 
for some moments upon the placid face of the reader. 

The old man laid his book carefully upon the table, 
took the pipe from his mouth, and turned to the ques- 
tioner a pair of kindly gray eyes. 

“So, ho,” he said, a smile transfiguring his counte- 
nance, “so you’ve waked up at last. Do you know, 


192 


Sherman Hale 


young man, that you have been sleeping as peacefully 
as a little child for exactly ten hours ? . 

“But where am I V ’ the invalid persisted. 

“In the hands of God and under the care of one 
of His most humble servants,” the man replied sol- 
emnly. 

“But this house, whose is it ? Where is it ? And who 
are you ? And who am I ?” 

The hermit flashed a quizzical glance at the sick man 
when he heard that last question, but he allowed no 
hint of his surprise to he apparent in his reply. 

“A goodly number of questions to he answered all at 
once,” he said cheerfully. “It’s my house, such as it 
is; it’s in God’s world; and I am your friend. Let 
that suffice for to-night. Drink this and try to go to 
sleep again.” 

“But you haven’t answered my last question?” the 
invalid insisted petulantly. “Who am I ?” 

The old man put a hard, calloused hand upon the 
sick man’s puzzled brow as he answered solemnly, 
“You are God’s child and God will take care of you. 
How, drink this and be at rest.” 

The sick man took the cup offered him, and a sense 
of peace settled upon his troubled spirit. Like a child, 
he turned over and went to sleep. 

It was noon of the next day when after a refreshing 
bowl of porridge the invalid again began to question the 
strange man with the placid face. He learned that he 
had been ill for nearly a week, not dangerously ill the 
good man hastened to explain, only the illness of a 
wearied spirit and of a worn out body. 


The Philosophy of a Man at Peace 193 


“And all the time you have been caring for me? 
[Why should you be so good ?” he asked. 

“I am but the humble servant of the Father of love,” 
the hermit replied simply. The invalid looked at the 
man curiously. 

“I am afraid, my boy, that you don’t know the 
Father yet,” the hermit said in answer to his look. 
“But you will sometime. I know you will, and then 
you will see that all His plans work out for good.” 

A frown of perplexity wrinkled the white forehead 
of the sick man, but before he could ask the question 
which was forming upon his lips, the old man again 
touched his forehead with a soothing gesture, and con- 
tinued to talk in quiet, even tones. 

“There was a time, my boy, when I felt as I think 
you feel now. Hopes were blasted. Trouble came, 
misunderstandings, loneliness, and God I could not see. 
But out of the deep there came a voice which spoke the 
words of peace. 

“Listen, do you hear the surf beating upon the rocks 
off the point ? I doubt not the turbulent sea seems cruel 
to those jagged rocks. But listen again. If your ears 
are as keen to detect the sounds of the sea as mine have 
become, with the booming of the surf on yonder rocks 
you will hear the soft swish of the incoming tide upon 
my tiny beach. There the water comes in gently, sooth- 
ingly, refreshingly. Boy, for you seem not more than 
a boy to me, when God’s ways seem hard and cruel it is 
because we oppose our rough, jagged wills to the in- 
coming tide of His love. When our rough corners are 


194 


Sherman Hale 


all smoothed off, the tide comes in with gentle refresh- 
ment.” 

“But ” 

“Yes, I think I know what you would say. I said it 
once myself. We have both suffered, my lad. Perhaps 
we have suffered for our own wrong doings and perhaps 
some of the suffering has come to us because of others. 
That seems to me to be the sweetest of suffering, if we 
only knew it — to suffer for others, to bear patiently the 
heavy burden because of our love for some one else. I 
hope you know that kind of suffering, too.” 

Por several minutes there was silence in the little 
cabin, broken only by the ticking of the clock in the 
corner and by the loud breathing of the sleeping dog upon 
the rug beside the stove. The strange man’s words had 
affected the sick man deeply. He had suffered, that 
much he knew. But how he had suffered, he could not 
remember. He was conscious that the reference of the 
hermit to God had awakened within him a dull sense of 
rebellion. But for what reason he could not tell. His 
past was all a blank. Even his own name he could _>t 
recall. And the strangest part of it was that he did not 
seem to care very much. It was so quiet and restful 
there in the tiny room, listening to the kindly wo ’ds, 
and looking into the pleasant face of the man who had 
found peace. That he might hear the soothing oice 
some more, he asked an idle question. 

“Do people always bear patiently?” 

“Ah, my boy, who has been patient ? And don t you 
suppose the Eather of all pity understands ? See my dog, 
Major, there. How comfortable he is in the warmth of 


The Philosophy of a Man at Peace 195 

the fire, with everything snug about him and his 
stomach full of food. But sometimes I have to leave 
him alone while I go upon my pilgrimage.” A tinge 
of sadness crept into his quiet grey eyes but the peace 
of the countenance did not change. “Then, for his 
good, I have to lock the dog up in the cabin here. If I 
left him out doors he would be cold. But he does not 
know that I am locking him up for his good. He is 
always rebellious, and those nights when I am gone, and 
the fire gets low, I know that he spends most of the time 
in pitiful moaning and in angry, insistent barking. He 
cannot understand, I cannot make him understand, for 
he’s only a dog. 

“Dear boy, we are like the dog. When things go 
smooth with us, when all is warm and snug and we are 
well supplied, then we sleep in selfish comfort. Yes, 
God forgive us, we sleep when we might be doing some- 
thing for others. After awhile, for our good, some of 
the comforts are removed, and we are put in some 
restraint. Then we whine and grumble. We don’t 
understand. We can’t understand. Bor we are only 
men and the ways of our Heavenly Master are some- 
times past finding out by mortals. 

“But the Master knows. Do I hold it against my dog 
because he barks when I lock him up? And will not 
God forgive me for my impatience when I chafe at his 
restraint? Oh, my boy, trust the God who knows and 
pities. Manfully, bravely, do your best, but when you 
fail, trust* Him. When you fall, rise up again. Do 
your duty in His strength and He will lead you through 
the deep waters to the place of peace.” 


Sherman Hale 


196 

The benignant smile which accompanied the words 
illumined the face of the speaker, so the sick man 
thought whimsically, as with a light which comes from 
above. And as the old man rose to relight his pipe, 
something of his peace was caught and appropriated by 
the harassed, rebellious spirit of the boy. 

By the middle of the month of February the sick man 
was able to go out of doors on pleasant days and to 
stand upon the beach, quaffing the health-giving sea air 
with increasing delight. By the last of the month he 
could help about his homely tasks the kind friend whom, 
for want of another name, he grew to call the Good 
Samaritan. But during all the days while his body 
grew strong and stalwart, his memory remained asleep. 
There were moments when he tried to recollect, but they 
came but seldom. For the most part he was content to 
rest, and the peace in his soul deepened while his body 
grew strong, and while his mind was quiescent. 

Then came the time for the hermit’s next nightly trip 
to Boston in the last days of February. 



: 'v 






"‘there were 

Sherman Hale. 


MOMENTS WHEN 


HE TRIED TO 




RECOLLECT. 

Page 196 



CHAPTER XXII 


PERHAPS SOMETIME 

During that month of February “ Chubby” Hichols, 
to use his own phrase, was having the time of his life, 
and the delight of the days was the joy of his absorbing 
love for Myrtice Meredith. When he slept, Myrtice was 
with him in his dreams. When he dined alone, he saw 
her in imagination across the table, and ofttimes when 
his servant was out of the room he would address to the 
vision of his fancy words of tender endearment. Even 
when he was at the Club with other men the girl’s face 
often came between him and that of some convivial 
companion. At such times “ Chubby’s” gay laugh would 
stop suddenly, and his eyes would become grave and 
tender while a smile of happy abstraction hovered about 
his lips. 

“By Jove, ‘Chubby, ” his friend Dr. Markham said 
to him one day at a Club dinner, “if I didn’t know you 
too well to believe that you had any sentimental non- 
sense in you, I should diagnose your case as one of love. 
And love is a dangerous malady, my boy, the most 
malignant and treacherous disease known to the medical 
profession.” 

“Bah,” said “Chubby” but he blushed like a girl in 
her teens. 

If the hours away from Myrtice were dominated by 


Sherman Hale 


198 

happy dreams, the moments with her were too precious 
for any accounting. While her grief for Sherman was 
fresh and her loneliness most burdensome, he went to 
see her often and she always received him gladly. 

“You are a great comfort,” she acknowledged to him 
more than once. “I don’t know what I should have 
done these days without you.” 

At this praise from her his joy knew no hounds, 
though he hastened to disclaim any motive of unselfish- 
ness in the service he had been able to render her, and 
hurriedly changed the subject of conversation. 

“How is your guardian?” he asked abruptly one 
evening when she had again expressed her gratitude to 
him so entrancingly that he could hardly refrain from 
taking her in his arms. 

“He doesn’t seem a bit better,” she replied sadly, 
unconscious of the temptation which he had resisted. 
“I get more anxious about him every day. He doesn’t 
eat at all well, and I’m sure his rest is very broken. 
He walks in his sleep almost every night, I think, — I 
hear him so frequently.” 

“Does he go to the study drawer and look at that 
check any more ?” 

“Yes, I’ve seen him do it twice within the last 
week. You see when I hear him go from his room 
I’m so anxious that I have to get up and follow him, — 
I’m so afraid that something will happen to him.” 

“Poor man. He’s had a great deal to try him. It 
was too much for a man of his years and disposition 
to have to suffer.” 

“Oh, can you guess,” she exclaimed, turning to him 


Perhaps — Sometime 1 99 

with shining eyes, “can you begin to guess how thank- 
ful I was that he let them bring Sherman here ? I 
was almost afraid he wouldn’t, he had been so hard, so 
cruelly hard with him.” 

“Yes, I know,” he said hurriedly, not bearing to see 
the distress that always came to her eyes when on rare 
occasions she spoke of her trouble. “I know, but he 
was hard-headed, that’s all. I think his heart must be 
all right. He must be disappointed in Barrington, too. 
Probably he thought the man might turn out a great 
preacher or a deep theologian like himself. Yes, it 
must have all been a great shock to him. He ought 
to see a doctor.” 

“But he won’t.” 

“I know, and you can’t make him. Well, let’s not 
worry. Everything will come out all right some time.” 

She was silent then, gazing abstractedly out of the win- 
dow at the gathering storm, while he with bated breath 
and beating heart gazed at her clear-cut profile and at 
the white throat peeping out from its setting of black. 
Suddenly she turned to him with a question. 

“How is it going to come out with poor Mr. Barring- 
ton ?” 

He hesitated in his reply, for he knew her sympa- 
thetic nature and he did not wish to pain her. 

“Tell me,” she demanded impulsively. “Of course, I 
saw in the paper that he had been bound over for trial, 
but I want to know what folks are saying about it. 
Is there anybody who believes he is innocent V 9 

“I’m afraid not.” 

“But Sherman — might — have — been — despondent,” 


200 


Sherman Hale 


she suggested haltingly. “He must have suffered 
so.” 

“But the man tells such a weak and incredible story,” 
objected “Chubby,” trying to draw her attention away 
from the memory of Sherman’s suffering, “and the cir- 
cumstantial evidence is so strong against him. He ad- 
mitted that he was with Sherman that night, and that he 
took him down to the wharf. But then he insists that he 
left him there and ran away, becoming frightened at 
some one’s approach. But what he says is absolutely 
without evidence. Besides — oh, it’s most incredible, 
Miss Meredith.” 

“And he will be convicted and executed ?” she 
faltered. 

“I’m afraid so.” Then suddenly he added angrily, 
“If that happens to him, it will be no more than he 
deserves.” 

She looked at him wonderingly. 

“You almost frighten me when you look that way,” 
she said. “I never saw you look angry before. You 
misunderstood Mr. Barrington from the first. I’m 
afraid you don’t like him very well.” 

“Ho,” he said shortly. “I don’t like him, and be- 
lieve me, Miss Meredith, he is not worth your sym- 
pathy.” 

After that they talked of things more inconsequential, 
and soon he took his leave. 

It happened that it was on the very night of the her- 
mit’s visit to Boston when the pent-up love in 
“Chubby’s” heart found its irresistible expression. 

He had been dining with Myrtice and her guardian. 


Perhaps — Sometime 


201 


ISTo other guests had been present except “Chubby's” 
uncle, the Harvard professor. After dinner the two 
scholars had retired to the study where they were soon 
lost in the discussion of an intricate problem concerning 
the authority of a certain recently discovered Hebrew 
manuscript. 

Left to themselves in the drawing room, the two 
young people began to talk casually, first of a book they 
had both been reading, and finally of a new piece of 
music which had been attracting much favorable com- 
ment. 

“I have it here,” Myrtice said brightly, as she 
crossed the room to the music rack. “It was sent up 
with some others I ordered only this week.” 

“Can you play it ?” he asked eagerly, standing by her 
side while she rapidly sorted the folios of sheet music. 

“I can try,” she replied demurely, smiling up at him. 
“Ah, here it is. But you mustn't be too critical, you 
know, for I've had time to play it over only once.” 

She seated herself at the piano as she spoke and he 
took his stand beside her ready to turn the music at her 
bidding. 

“I can't read the stuff, you understand,” he apolo- 
gized, “so when you get to the bottom of the page you 
will have to nod your head.” 

She was a natural musician, not merely one who 
could strike the right notes with accurate precision, but 
one who could feel the note's true expression, and who 
could appreciate the motif of the composer. 

As she gave herself to the very spirit of the simple, 
dreamy waltz, he watched the play of expression upon 


202 


Sherman Hale 


her face with eager fascination. How her lips were 
parted in a rare smile, again they were almost pathetic 
in their soberness. Here her eyes danced merrily, and 
there they assumed a dreamy expression that was almost 
sad. When she had finished the score she looked up 
with a smile. 

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she asked. 

“Yes,” he replied, with the far-away expression of 
one awaking from a dream. “Will you play it again?” 

She complied willingly, and again he surrendered his 
eyes to the fascination of her expressive face. When 
she had finished the score for the second time she did 
not look up, but dropping her hands idly upon the keys 
in improvisation, she gave expression to the dreamy 
mood which possessed her. Her white hands wandered 
slowly and lightly over the key-board, and the music 
which came from their touch was low and soft. Ho 
smile was on her pensive face now, no laughter in her 
eyes. Her eyelids drooped as she played on, and 
beneath their heavy dark fringes appeared two glisten- 
ing tears. 

She stopped abruptly, and her hands fell listlessly 
into her lap. In an instant he was beside her, his hot 
hands holding both hers in a clasp which she was power- 
less to break. 

“Miss Meredith — Myrtice,” he murmured brokenly, 
his voice trembling with emotion, “Do you know I 
can’t bear to see you look so sad ? I can’t bear it, I say. 
Myrtice, Myrtice, look glad again. Look at me and tell 
me you are happy. Look at me and say that you love 


Perhaps — Sometime 203 

me. Oh, sweetheart, don’t yon know that I love yon? 
Haven’t you known it all these weeks ?” 

She rose slowly from the stool, by the action com- 
pelling him also to stand upright. She tried to free her 
hands, but he held them tightly. 

“Don’t turn from me like that,” he pleaded. “Oh, I 
know I’m a brute. I know I don’t know how to tell my 
love, but don’t turn away from me, dear. Don’t, don’t. 
Let me look into your eyes just once. If you can’t say 
you love me, say you forgive me, and try to forget what 
I have said.” 

He attempted to draw her closer to himself that he 
might look into her face, but she kept it resolutely 
turned away, and when he again began frantically to 
plead for her love or her forgiveness, she interrupted 
him gently. 

“Don’t, my friend. Please don’t. You are hurting 
me.” 

He dropped her hands then and hung his head in 
self-abasement, while she stood before him, her body 
swaying unsteadily. 

“I didn’t know, oh I didn’t know,” she murmured 
without lifting her eyes. “I thought you understood.” 

“What?” he whispered. 

“That my heart was buried,” she said softly, “out 
there in the cold cemetery with Sherman.” 

“My God!” he muttered, staggering backwards as 
though he had been struck. “I didn’t guess it. Believe 
me, Miss Meredith, I thought you mourned him only as 
a friend. Can you forgive me?” 

She stepped quickly forward and gave him her hand. 


204 


Sherman Hale 


“Don’t be troubled, my friend,” she said as she took 
his hand, “and don’t think I am ungrateful. You have 
not wounded me to-night, you have honored me, and you 
will be my friend still, won’t you? And you will be 

patient with me. Perhaps — sometime ” 

With a sound that closely resembled a sob she turned 
from him quickly and hurried from the room. 

“Perhaps — sometime,” he sang to himself as he 
walked home in the crisp cold air. “Perhaps — some- 
time, what did she mean by that unless ” 

But his thoughts were rudely interrupted. An auto- 
mobile stopped at the curb beside him and the im- 
perious voice of Dr. Markham shouted, 

“ ‘Chubby/ get in and come with me. You’ll do just 
as well as anybody.” 


CHAPTER XXIII 


TOO DEEP FOR “ CHUBBY” NICHOLS 

“It’s an accident,” Dr. Markham explained as 
“ Chubby” obediently stepped out of the storm into the 
covered runabout. They began to speed over the smooth, 
hard ground. 

“It happened near my corner,” the physician con- 
tinued, “so they brought him into my rooms. Run into 
by an auto. One arm broken, one leg cracked. Pos- 
sibly something bad inside, though can’t be sure yet. 
A little ” 

“But what do want of me?” asked “Chubby” who 
was not interested in the detailed account of the vic- 
tim’s injuries. 

“I want you tell him that you will go down to his 
shack somewhere down the harbor in the morning and 
look up some derelict that he seems to be taking care of. 
He is worried and won’t rest until he is sure this ward 
of his is notified of the accident. See?” 

“Yes, I see. And you thought I’d do as well as any- 
body?” 

“Exactly, ‘Chubby’ ; that is your mission in life — to 
run errands for somebody else. A man of your good 
nature with plenty of leisure ” 

“You forget that I am entering on a business 
career.” 


206 


Sherman Hale 


“Ha, ha, that’s a good one. Let’s see, how many 
days are yon spending in the store now ?” 

“I was there a part of one forenoon last week,” 
“Chubby” answered combatively. 

“And how long will it take you at that rate before 
you learn the business and are admitted into partner- 
ship?” 

“I haven’t reckoned it up,” was the indifferent 
reply. 

“Oh, you’re all right, ‘Chubby.’ Sometime you’ll 
fall in love with the right sort of a girl and that will 
wake you up. Then you’ll work, work and win out. 
But meanwhile, you’re just the man to run down the 
harbor for my patient. Is your motor in the water?” 
“Ho.” 

“Well, you can get somebody to take you down. 
Here we are at the office. He is a curious duck, 
‘Chubby,’ and if he quiets down as I expect, you may 
enjoy talking to him.” 

As the two men entered the tiny ward which opened 
out of Dr. Markham’s outer office, a nurse moved 
quietly away from the bed. 

“Any easier, Miss Wilkins ?” the physician asked. 

“Hot much. He doesn’t seem to be in pain, though.” 

“Ho? Well, I guess I’ll fix him all right. I’ve 
found a man who’ll do his errand for him.” 

Dr. Markham approached the bed and professionally 
took the gnarled, weather-beaten wrist of the patient. 

“Ah, yes, coming along all right,” he said in answer 
to the questioning look of the deep grey eyes. “How, 
Mr. , let’s see, your name is ?” 


Too Deep for “Chubby” Nichols 207 

“They call me the Hermit of Nahant,” the injured 
man replied. 

“Well, then, Mr. Hermit, let me introduce Mr. 
Hichols. He has leisure and money and good nature, 
and he says he will he glad to do you any service in his 
power. I’ll leave you now and you can tell him your 
wishes.” 

When the busy physician had gone, “Chubby” sat 
down in the chair which the nurse had placed by the 
bedside, and with a few murmured words of perfunc- 
tory sympathy he waited for the man to speak. 

“You are very good to be willing to help an old man 
like me,” the hermit said, his kindly eyes upon 
“Chubby” with a look in them that seemed to the 
young man a very benediction. “If I’m never able to 
repay you, the good Father of all mercies will do it for 
me.” 

Embarrassed by the quiet words “Chubby” remained 
silent, indicating his annoyance at the old man’s grati- 
tude only by a deprecatory shrug of his shoulders. 

“If it were only for myself, I wouldn’t trouble you,” 
the gentle, quiet voice continued, “but I have a poor 
friend at home who will be worried when I do not re- 
turn tomorrow morning. The poor lad has had suffer- 
ing enough. I don’t want to cause him any more.” 

“That’s thoughtful of you, I am sure,” “Chubby” 
remarked, wonder ingly watching the old man’s face and 
trying in vain to catalogue him. 

“Looks like Santa Claus in a fisherman’s rig,” he 
decided. “But he talks like St. Peter, and his lan- 
guage is as pure as that of my good uncle, the Professor. 


208 


Sherman Hale 


Give it up. Markham was right. He’s a queer duck.” 

Aloud he asked, “Why don’t you telephone to your 
friend?” 

The fleeting smile of amusement which lighted the 
face of the sufferer made “Chubby” sure that he was 
indeed no other than Saint Nicholas in disguise. But 
when the smile disappeared as quickly as it had come, 
the sober, kindly, but rugged face again forced to his 
mind a comparison with the conventional picture of 
Saint Peter. 

“We have no telephone,” the hermit replied, “and 
we have no near neighbors. Besides I have a feeling 
that my friend may not wish to have his presence in 
my cabin known. You see, I am trusting you some- 
what. I do not know his history, but I fancy he has 
suffered — like myself.” The last two words were 
hardly audible. 

“What is your friend’s name ?” “Chubby” asked with 
polite interest. 

“I never asked him and he has never said. What 
matters a name ? It is not the name, sir, that counts ; 
it is the character.” 

“But how am I to find him and give your message if 
I do not know his name ?” 

“You will simply follow my direction. Can you sail 
a boat?” 

“Only indifferently. I use a motor. Why?” 

“I was going to offer you the use of my skiff.” 

“Don’t trouble yourself to that extent. I can find 
conveyance very readily. Just tell me where to go.” 

“I live at Nahant. But don’t go to the steamboat 


Too Deep for “Chubby” Nichols 209 


landing. That is too far from my home, and the way 
by land is somewhat rough. Round the point beyond 
the steamboat landing and coast along the shore two 
knots. You will find my mooring in a sheltered cove 
fringed with scrub oaks. Make your boat fast to my 
mooring and row ashore in my punt. The old house- 
boat on the pebbly beach is my home. There you will 
find my friend. Tell him of my misfortune and give 
him the opportunity to come back with you if he wishes. 
If he does that, don’t let him forget to take Major with 
him. But should he prefer to remain in my cabin, tell 
him that he is welcome to st^y so long as it may suit 
his convenience.” 

“I understand, and I will give him your message 
early in the morning.” 

“ Thank you. You are very good.” 

“Can I do anything more for you? Are there any 
other friends who ought to be informed of your acci- 
dent ?” 

Something that seemed like a spasm of pain crossed 
the face of the injured man, but it did not linger there. 

“Ho ; there are no others,” he replied quietly. 

Somehow “Chubby” was loath to go. He could not 
explain just why he was so attracted to this man with 
the placid features who in his suffering thought only 
of the worry his absence would cause to the unknown 
man he was befriending. Perhaps it was the loneliness 
of those words, “Ho, there are no others,” which ap- 
pealed to him. Or it may have been just the sensation 
of peace which seemed to emanate from the old man’s 
personality. .Whatever may have been the attraction, 


210 


Sherman Hale 


instead of taking his leave after he had received his 
instructions “Chubby,” mindful of the Doctor’s permis- 
sion, settled himself in his chair for a long conversa- 
tion. 

“You don’t mean that you have no friends at all ?” 
he inquired kindly. 

“I have one Friend, but He knows already.” 

“Oh,” said “Chubby,” not understanding. “Then 
why doesn’t this friend come to you and help you ?” 

“He has come to me, my dear sir, and He does help 
me. I am referring now to the Father of all pity. If 
He hadn’t come to me years ago I should not be here 
now.” 

“Chubby” somewhat hastily turned the subject from 
a topic which, as he expressed it to himself, “was get- 
ting a little beyond his depth.” 

“But if you have no friends, no human friends I 
mean, you at least have some occupation. You were 
going somewhere, doing something, when you were 
struck by the auto. Can I not complete your errand ?” 

“That was something no one else can do. But it can 
wait. The Father knows, and He will make it right 
with her.” 

The last words were whispered, but in the quiet room 
“Chubby” heard them distinctly and wondered what 
they could mean. Who was “she” if he had no friends ? 

The old man saw the puzzled expression upon his 
caller’s face, and understanding that he must have 
spoken more loudly than he intended, he hastened to 
explain. 

“I’m a strange old man and you mustn’t mind my 


Too Deep for “Chubby” Nichols 211 

whimsicalities. When I said ‘He will make it all right 
with her’ I was thinking of some one whom I used to 
know very intimately.” 

“Oh,” murmured “Chubby,” not knowing anything 
else to say. 

“You see I have come to believe that the heavenly 
Father takes care of all His children just as a kind 
earthly father would do. You will think, it may be, 
that I have strange fancies. But I have been living 
much by myself, and I have had some sorrows.” 

The words were not spoken complainingly, but there 
was a sadness in them which touched “Chubby” 
deeply. 

“Could — could — a — blunderbuss like me do any- 
thing to help ?” he asked with pity. 

“I thank you, sir,” came the quiet reply. “One’s 
sorrows are one’s own. Ho one else can really share 
them, and only the Father of pity can help one to bear. 
I thank Him that He has taught me how to bear 
patiently. 

“Listen, my dear friend,” he continued, “to the words 
of an old man who knows whereof he speaks. Sorrow 
is ofttimes the very best blessing which God can give 
to His children. I do not say that I wish sorrow for 
you, for I could find it in my heart to hope that you 
may never need its sweet discipline. But if sorrow 
comes, my friend, let the good Father help you to bear 
it, and sometime you will thank God that it came. 
Good night.” 

“Chubby” took the outstretched hand reverently, and 
his irresponsible, gay and happy life seemed somewhat 


212 


Sherman Hale 


tame and commonplace, as he tried in imagination to 
picture the life of this patient sufferer. 

“Jove, I feel as though I’d been to church,” he said 
to himself as he called a cab and drove to his Club. 
“Or perhaps I ought to say,” he admitted thoughtfully, 
“as I suppose one should feel who had been in church. 
I’m afraid I don’t know the sensation very well by ex- 
perience. But that old fellow’s talk certainly beats any 
sermon I ever heard. I wonder who is the ‘she’ ? And 
how would it feel to be on such intimate terms with the 
Deity ?” 

He was not thinking very much of the injured old 
man, however, as the next morning, buttoned up to his 
chin in his fur coat, he rode down the harbor in a hired 
motor. The rhythmical “chug-chug” of the engine made 
him drowsy, and as he lay comfortably curled up in the 
stern on the cushions of the little vessel, his thoughts 
were all of Myrtice. The chugging engine sang to him 
her final words, “Perhaps — sometime.” 

His happy, hopeful day-dreams were rudely inter- 
rupted. 

“I think this must be the place, sir,” the engineer 
said respectfully. “There’s the cove, and there’s the 
mooring and the little punt.” 

“Yes,” “Chubby” acquiesced, “you must be right. 
Let me off into the punt and stay by until I come back.” 

The motor came to at the mooring. “Chubby” re- 
moved his heavy coat and threw it into the stern of the 
punt, and jumping in briskly he rowed rapidly toward 
the shore. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


A GHOST IN THE DOORWAY 

In his usual healthy custom the hermit’s unknown 
friend awoke from a refreshing sleep at daylight. He 
prepared his simple breakfast and attended to the wants 
of the dog; and before his coffee was boiling, quite in 
the habit of his friend and benefactor, he broke out into 
singing the hermit’s favorite hymn. 

“ Praise God from whom all blessings flow.” 

Major looked up from his plate of meat bones and 
wagged his tail sympathetically. 

“Ah, ha, old boy,” the singer exclaimed cheerily, 
“you recognize the tune, do you? But perhaps you 
think I haven’t any right to sing it. I will admit it 
belongs more appropriately to the Good Samaritan, 
though perhaps the old man has given me a little of his 
thankful spirit. Who knows ? 

“Major, old boy,” he continued, stooping to pat the 
dog’s head, “that Good Samaritan of ours is just about 
all right. If I ever remember who I am and am able 
to get out of this place and get to work, I am going to 
make it easier for him. You may bet your last bone on 
that He has had trouble and pretty soon he’s going to 
be too old to live here alone. Then will come my 
chance. You’ll see, Major, and you’ll be in it, too.” 


214 


Sherman Hale 


Major wagged his tail and gave his undivided atten- 
tion to his food. 

His breakfast eaten and the dishes carefully cleaned 
and neatly piled upon the table, the young man went 
out for the daily supply of wood. After an hour of 
vigorous exercise in the open air he returned again to 
the cabin, and seating himself beside the fire he called 
Major to his side and began whimsically to talk to the 
dog as though he were a human being. 

“I had a dream last night, Major,” he confided, as 
he stroked the dog’s shaggy head. “Want to hear it? 
It was a vague dream anyway, and yet some parts of it 
seemed very real. I dreamed of a girl whom I’m sure 
I have seen many times, only I can’t quite remember 
where.” 

He stopped abruptly, and his brow contracted in a 
frown of perplexity, while his eyes were fixed dreamily 
upon the crackling fire in the stove. 

“But the dream,” he interrupted his thoughts, his 
brow suddenly clearing. “You are getting impatient, 
Major, I can see. I dreamed that this girl, whoever 
she was, was very unhappy. I saw her sitting by the 
fire in her room. She had been crying or worse still, 
she had been sobbing without tears. I couldn’t know 
what had been troubling her so. But after awhile she 
stretched out her hands and called a name. I am sure 
it must have been my name, but I can’t remember what 
it was. Anyway, when I heard her call I went to her. 
I took her in my arms, and I said, 

“ ‘Never mind, dear girl, I am here, and everything 
will come out all right sometime.’ 


A Ghost in the Doorway 215 


“And then, she ” 

A warning whine from the dog interrupted him. 

“What is it, Major?” 

Even as he asked the question the whining changed 
to a glad bark, as the dog’s quick ears caught the sound 
of the crunching of the boat upon the beach. 

“Ah, so he’s come at last, has he? Well, Major, go 
find him.” 

The man let the dog out, shut the door, and again 
seated himself by the fire. A moment later, however, 
he was surprised to hear the joyful bark of the dog 
change to a note of menace. 

“What can be the matter?” he thought. “It can’t be 
anyone else coming here?” 

“Call off your cursed dog, can’t you ?” came an angry 
voice from the outside. “Do you want him to eat me 
up?” 

At the sound of that voice the face of the man in the 
cabin turned deathly pale. His hands dropped nerve- 
lessly to his side, and an inrush of returning memory 
sent him tottering to the table for support. But clear 
recollection did not come all in a moment. 

“Call off your dog, I say,” the angry shouts again 
repeated. “Call him off and let me land. I’ve got a 
message from the old man who calls himself the Hermit 
of Hahant.” 

Staggering to the door, the man with the pale face 
opened it only wide enough to let in the dog who in 
response to his shrill whistle came most reluctantly. 
When the door was immediately closed again, Major 
continued to show his displeasure in unmistakable dog 


2l6 


Sherman Hale 


language. He ran back and forth across the narrow 
cabin, beating his tail violently against the chairs and 
the table, emitting sharp, ringing barks of defiance. 
The dog’s demeanor boded no good to any stranger who 
might try to enter unbidden. 

But the man did not heed the dog. He had sunk 
again into his chair and was trying in vain to steady 
his nerves and to hasten the recovery of his awakened 
memory. 

“Chubby” Uichols did not relish his reception. 
“Curse it all,” he mumbled to himself as he drew the 
punt upon the beach above the reach of the tide. 
“Whoever he is, he’s a cad, and I’ve a mind to go back 
without giving him my message. Why couldn’t he 
come out and give a man a lift? Ugh! It’s cold 
enough here to freeze a ghost.” 

Having made the punt safe, he deliberately put on his 
heavy coat, and with extreme moderation he selected 
and lighted a cigarette. 

“Ho deuced hurry,” he soliloquized. “The duffer 
can’t be very anxious about his pal or he’d come out 
and see what’s the matter. Jove, if it wasn’t for my 
promise to that old man I’d leave him alone now.” 

Meantime the man within was struggling with con- 
flicting emotions which he could not classify. 

In the first place, the voice from the beach had 
awakened within him a sense of utter loneliness and a 
longing for human companionship. He wanted to rush 
out and pour his very soul into the ears of this new- 
comer. Yet he could not tell why he wanted to do so. 

With his newly awakened sense of utter loneliness 


217 


A Ghost in the Doorway 

and longing for human companionship there struggled 
for the mastery of his spirit a vague, unnameable hut 
unmanning fear. Dim, hazy visions came to him of 
long corridors, of iron-grated cells, of a dark fearsome 
room of awful desolation, of columns of men clad in 
flaming red suits, and of grim, blue-coated, stern- 
visaged men wielding policemen’s billies and flashing 
glittering revolvers. USTo one of these visions could he 
fix in his groping mind with any accuracy of detail. 
But they made him afraid, like the tormenting phan- 
toms of the befogged brain of some inebriate. 

Still another emotion had been awakened in him by 
the voice of the angry man on the beach. It was ap- 
parently as causeless as the others, the product of the 
memory of vague, elusive generalities. He felt that 
sometime and somewhere something had happened which 
this ringing voice suggested, something which had 
caused him bitter jealousy and quick, unreasoning 
anger. The old unhappy emotions were with him 
again, but the detailed cause of the feelings he could not 
compel his memory to divulge. 

There came a loud knocking at the door. The har- 
assed man within gripped the seat of his chair with both 
hands, but he made no move to open the door. He 
could not have moved. 

“Open up, and let me in. By Jove, this is a fine 
was to treat your guest. Open up, I say. Don’t you 
know it’s cold out here V 9 

There was no reply to his demand except the con- 
tinued barking of the angry dog. 

“By thunder, I’ll break in your old door if you don’t 


2 18 


Sherman Hale 


let me in in just two seconds. Didn’t I tell you I had a 
message from your friend, the Hermit?” 

“Then give the message, and go away.” 

The words were uttered in an unnatural tone, as they 
were wrung from the heart of the suffering man seem- 
ingly in spite of his will. 

“Confound you, then, this is the message. The old 
man was hurt last night, and he can’t come back for 
God knows how long. But much you seem to care. Go 
hang yourself for the devilish cad you are.” 

By way of emphasizing his remarks “Chubby” gave 
the door a final kick and turned on his heel. 

He had gone but a few paces, however, before the 
door which he had been kicking in vain was thrown 
suddenly wide open. A man rushed out of the cabin 
in frantic haste. For an instant he stood near the door- 
way in apparent hesitation, his face pale from the strug- 
gle of the emotions through which he had just been 
passing, his arms outstretched in an agony of suppli- 
cation. 

“For God’s sake,” the man said, “don’t go off and 
leave me this way. Come in and help me remember.” 

“Chubby” turned about and lifted his wide-open eyes 
to the figure in the doorway. For an instant he stood 
thus, transfixed with amazement and horror. 

“Sherman Hale! My God!” he exclaimed, as he 
staggered forward to steady himself by the cabin. 


CHAPTER XXV 


TO SYMPATHETIC EARS 

When Myrtice Meredith left “Chubby” Hichols so 
unceremoniously with the words “perhaps — sometime” 
trembling upon her lips, she ran directly to her room 
and threw herself in a paroxysm of grief upon the bed. 

“Oh, oh,” she moaned. “I did not mean to hurt him. 
I did not know he cared that way. How could I know ? 
I have just thought of him as a good friend, good and 
true — Sherman’s friend as well as mine. Oh, it wasn’t 
fair in him to fall in love.” 

She laughed hysterically at the whimsical thought of 
his falling in love on purpose to annoy her, and after 
awhile she could think of it more rationally. 

“It’s all my fault, anyway,” she confessed to herself 
when a half hour later she rose from her bed and sank 
languidly in the arm chair before the open grate. “It’s 
all my fault. I should not have let him come so often. 
But he’s been such a comfort. Oh, Sherman, Sherman, 
why did you leave me ? What cruel fate made you go 
away ?” 

She put her hands to her face and her body shook 
with convulsive sobs. When after awhile she let her 
hands fall again to her side her eyes were dry and 
unusually bright, and her cheeks were crimson with the 
hectic flush of one who grieves without the relief of 
tears. 


220 


Sherman Hale 


She clasped her hands nervously and gazing into the 
fire tried to think and to plan. How should she treat 
Mr. Nichols in the future ? Could she act towards him 
exactly as she had been accustomed? Could he come 
and go when he pleased? Could she confide in him 
freely, telling him her griefs and annoyances? 

“No,” she decided, “that wouldn’t be fair. Unless — 
unless — I really could mean to give him more than 
friendship by and by. What did I mean by those last 
words to him ? Did I mean that I thought it possible 
that sometime I could learn to love someone else ? Oh, 
Sherman, I can’t be untrue to you! I can’t, can I? 
Tell me you know I can’t.” 

With a gesture of pathetic appeal she leaned forward 
in her chair, her eyes still fixed upon the glowing coals, 
and extending her arms toward the fire she cried aloud, 
“Sherman, Sherman, come back, come back.” 

For some moments she sat in this strained position, 
her arms rigid, her eyes fixed upon the bright fire. But 
soon the tension of her nervous condition relaxed. Her 
hands fell into her lap, her body sank back into the 
chair, and with a gentle sigh she closed her eyes, her 
head resting comfortably upon the cushion. 

The vision which she saw was most real. It seemed 
as though Sherman had heard her call, for the door of 
her room opened softly and he stood before her. He 
was not just the same as she had seen him last. The 
face was somewhat older. Lines of suffering were upon 
his forehead. The mouth seemed more firm and self- 
controlled. It was her Sherman grown more manly, her 
Sherman with the reckless boyishness all outgrown. 


To Sympathetic Ears 


221 


But lie did not wait long for her to make these obser- 
vations. With rapid strides he crossed the room to her 
chair. He stooped over and lifted her gently in his 
strong arms. Then he himself sat down in the chair 
which she had just occupied and pillowed her tired head 
upon his breast while he encircled her with strong, pro- 
tecting arms. 

For a long time they sat there without words, she 
yielding herself to the comforting strength of his em- 
brace, he apparently too happy for speech. But all too 
soon the blissful moments were ended. Bending his 
head to hers he whispered, “ Never mind, dear girl. I 
am here and everything will come out all right some- 
time.” 

When she turned to say something in reply, sud- 
denly he was gone. 

She opened her eyes. The fire still glowed upon the 
hearth. Her little clock upon the dressing table was 
steadily ticking the seconds away. Her door was closed 
and locked just as she had left it herself when she had 
entered the room. 

Just at first an uncanny feeling benumbed her. The 
presence had been so real. Had she seen a ghost? 
Was there some truth then in those tales of spooks which 
she had so often heard and always scouted ? 

For some minutes she could not move from her chair. 
When she tried to lift her hand she found it strangely 
heavy. She was weary, too, unaccountably weary, com- 
pletely exhausted. It was the familiarity of that sen- 
sation of exhaustion which at last gave to her healthy 
mind the probable explanation of her vision. 


222 


Sherman Hale 


“I have hypnotized myself again,” she said to herself 
impatiently, “and the vision was just a mental illusion. 
I saw what I was last thinking about. Heigh-o !” she 
stretched her arms and yawned. “I must be careful. 
It is an experience I don’t fancy. That funny Mr. Mer- 
riweather was right — it is a somewhat doubtful accom- 
plishment.” 

Then she rang the bell for her maid, and when the 
girl came she was apparently quite herself. 

But the vision haunted her. She could not sleep, and 
when she came down stairs in the morning she was pale 
and haggard. When daylight came, so real was the 
remembrance of her vision that there suddenly awak- 
ened within her an unreasoning doubt of Sherman’s 
death. How could she be sure after all that he had left 
her? She had not seen the body in the sealed casket. 
Ho one had seen it but Mr. Hichols, and he might be 
mistaken. It would be so very easy. Besides, there 
was that strange denial of Mr. Barrington’s. Possibly 
he had been telling the truth. And if he had left Sher- 
man alone on the wharf perhaps he might be alive still. 
It might be they had all grievously misjudged the poor 
man who was awaiting his trial. 

Pilled with an unrest that refused to be quieted, after 
breakfast was over and her guardian had retreated to 
the study, she donned her wraps and went out on the 
street. She had determined to try to see Barrington and 
to hear his story from his own lips. How she should 
gain entrace to his prison cell she did not know. She 
only knew she must do something — something to make 
her more sure, something to still this disquieting doubt. 


223 


To Sympathetic Ears 

She found the difficulties to he less than she had antic- 
ipated. When she had frankly told her story to the 
warden, though he smiled inwardly at what he called a 
woman’s superstition, he quite readily granted her the 
desired interview with the prisoner. 

During the two months of his incarceration Mr. 
Barrington had lost all of his assurance of manner and 
much of his daintiness of appearance. She could 
hardly believe that this pale, unshaven face, sur- 
mounted by a shock of disheveled hair belonged to the 
man who had once been Professor Camwell’s secretary. 
When the unkempt man stood trembling before her, so 
cringing was his manner that she could hardly refrain 
from turning away in disgust. 

“Miss Meredith!” he stammered inarticulately, but 
he did not offer her his hand. Instead he sank down 
upon his cot bed and dropped his eyes to the floor. 

Moved by his abject condition, her first words were 
spoken in pity. 

“I’m sorry to see you here,” she said, as she seated 
herself on the hard wooden chair, “and perhaps I can 
help you, if you will tell me all about it.” 

He looked up at her eagerly, but the hope in his eyes 
died even at its birth. 

“Ho, you wouldn’t believe me,” he said bitterly. 
“Hobody believes me.” 

“But tell me, tell me just all that happened that night. 
Perhaps I shall be the exception. At any rate, I want to 
know.” 

He listlessly recited the incidents of the fateful Satur- 
day evening, just as he had told them on the morning 


224 


Sherman Hale 


after his arrest to “ Chubby” Nichols, just as he had told 
them many times since to officials and to newspaper re- 
porters. He did not spare himself when he came to 
speak of his desire to he rid of Sherman. But the 
cause of his unseemly desire he did not explain. 

When he reached that part of the recital which re- 
lated to his fear at the approaching footsteps, she was 
watching his face most narrowly. He caught her ex- 
pression of eagerness, and feeling that at last he had 
a sympathetic listener he was able to continue his nar- 
rative with a convincing power that had been lacking 
in all his preceding accounts. With his eyes fixed upon 
the intense face of the girl, so vividly did he portray the 
scene when he had left Sherman that, with her keen 
imagination, she could almost see the long wharf and 
the dark over-shadowing coal sheds and the black water 
gurgling nearby. She could almost hear the footsteps 
of the unknown man coming down the passageway to 
frighten him. 

Influenced by her sympathetic attention to his story, 
some of the confidence of the man returned. He did not 
cringe and whine as he had done when he had told the 
story to the unbelieving ears of “ Chubby” Nichols. He 
did not maintain the stoical and dogged manner which 
had so militated against him in his interviews with the 
officials. Towards her who was sympathetic he could 
act more like a man. 

"I was a fool,” he said as he concluded the recital, 
and he stood before her with head erect and arms 
folded across his breast. “I was a mean, despicable 
coward, and perhaps I’m getting only what I deserve. 


To Sympathetic Ears 225 

But before God, Miss Meredith, I did not kill Sherman 
Hale. If I must die, I’ll try to be brave, but I shall die 
innocent.” 

For a moment she looked at him earnestly, search- 
ingly, then rising quickly from her chair she impulsively 
held out her hand. 

“I believe you,” she said simply. 

He took the hand in both his own and pressed it to 
his hot dry lips. 

“ Thank God ! Thank God !” he murmured brokenly. 
Then falling weakly upon his cot bed, he burst into 
tears. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


THE TEMPTATION OF A MAN IN LOVE 

How the two reunited friends made their way into 
the cabin neither could ever tell. But after awhile 
they found themselves seated by the old cracked cook- 
stove looking steadily into each other’s eyes. 

It was Sherman who spoke first, but he uttered only 
a single word, 

“Well?” 

If “Chubby” Hichols caught any doubtful shade of 
meaning in the word, he did not choose to notice 
it. His own words in reply sounded somewhat strained 
to himself, but he tried to make them as cordial as 
though he had met Sherman as he had been accustomed 
to do in the old days. 

“I did not expect to see you here, Sherman,” he said. 

At the name spoken for the second time his com- 
panion sprang to his feet in great excitement. He put 
his hands to his head for an instant and then lifted 
his face with an expression of joyful relief. 

“That’s it,” he said. “That’s my name. I am Sher- 
man Hale. And now I can remember it all.” 

“Chubby” looked at him in amazement. 

“And you had forgotten ?” he asked. 

“Yes, I had forgotten,” he replied. “But now I 
know. And you are ‘Chubby 5 Hichols,” 


The Temptation of a Man in Love 227 

“Quite so. ‘Chubby’ Nichols, indeed.” 

“But you did not know I was here ?” 

“Evidently.” 

“Else you would not have come ?” with a slight bitter- 
ness of tone and an accent of suspicion. 

“Else I should have come sooner,” corrected 
“Chubby,” though in spite of himself his words still 
sounded unnatural. 

“To see a jail bird?” queried Sherman with some- 
thing like a sneer. 

“To see my friend,” “Chubby” declared, and by this 
time he felt that his voice was recovering its customary 
cordial ring. 

“Chuck all that, Sherman,” he continued, suddenly 
springing to his feet and laying his hand upon his 
friend’s shoulder. “You gave me a deuced turn just 
now. It’s the worst jolt I ever had. But I mean what 
I say. I’m glad to see you again, and I’m glad to 
see you looking so well. But, by gad, man, how did 
you get here ?” 

“It’s all a mystery,” Sherman replied, his awkward- 
ness and suspicion giving way before the other’s appar- 
ent friendliness. “I found myself here and that’s all 
I know about it. I did not even know who I was until 
you spoke my name just now. I had been sick, the 
Good Samaritan said.” 

“The Hermit of Nahant?” 

“Yes. I call him the Good Samaritan because of 
what he has done for me. I had been sick and he had 
been taking care of me.” 


228 


Sherman Hale 


“But don’t you know how he happened to fall in with 
you ?” 

“I haven’t the ghost of an idea. I think I must have 
been a little wobbly in the head. I hadn’t had much to 
eat for quite awhile.” 

“Good God, man, did you have to go hungry?” 

Sherman smiled bitterly. “What do you suppose 
would happen to an escaped convict with no money? 
Did you ever try to get work without experience and 
with no character? Try it some day. It’s very amus- 
ing.” The words were accompanied by a bitter, sar- 
castic smile, the smile which had become so habitual 
in the prison days. “Chubby” had never seen that 
smile before and he did not like it. 

“Don’t look that way, old boy,” he exclaimed. 
“That’s all past and gone. You won’t have to do it 
again. But think, man — think hard — can’t you remem- 
ber anything at all about the way you got here ?” 

“No. When I try to think it out I get all confused.” 

“What is the last thing you do remember?” 

“Seeing you with Myrtice Meredith,” came the unex- 
pected reply. 

The name of the girl hurled so suddenly into their 
conversation caught “Chubby” unawares, and to his 
dismay he felt the hot blood mount to his cheeks. 
Sherman, he felt, was watching him closely. 

“How — where — did you see us ?” “Chubby” managed * 
to stammer, trying in vain to conceal his embarrassment. 

“I was standing on the corner of Arlington and 
Beacon,” Sherman replied quietly. “I don’t know why 
I went there — nor how — and I’m sure I can’t tell what 


The Temptation of a Man in Love 229 


I was doing. But I was there when you and Myrtice 
passed under the light of the electric. You were telling 
her something and she was laughing quite gaily.” 

“Did you hear what I said to her ?” “Chubby” asked, 
thinking only that he might gain information that 
might identify the date. But Sherman read in the 
question a desire for concealment and a fear of ex- 
posure. He answered coldly, 

“Ho.” 

Then suddenly unable to control himself any longer, 
with the awakened jealousy clearly defined in his heart, 
he turned to the astonished “Chubby” and demanded 
imperiously, 

“ ‘Chubby/ do you love that girl ?” 

Again the tell-tale blush mounted to the man’s cheeks, 
but his eyes did not quail before the searching scrutiny 
of his friend. 

“I never lied to you yet, Sherman,” he answered 
bravely, “and I shall not now. Yes, I do love her.” 

“And she ? Does she love you V 9 

The answer came steadily and quickly. 

“Ho. She loves you.” 

“But I am an impossibility,” impatiently. “A bad 
dream — a thing of the past. She will love you when 
she has had time to forget me. Do you think that ?” 

“Sherman, that is not a fair question. If you were 
quite yourself you would not catechise me in this way. 
I shall not answer.” 

But the memory of those words “Sometime — per- 
haps” was still with him, and for the first time there 
entered his mind the thought of the cost to himself of 


230 


Sherman Hale 


this other man’s return to life. Sherman was still 
watching him. 

“But you do think so ?” he said at last. “Your very 
silence is evidence. You love her, and she will love 
you sometime, and that is what it should be, I suppose.” 

“It makes it easier,” after a few minutes of pregnant 
silence. 

“Makes what easier?” demanded “Chubby.” 

“It makes it easier to see my way into the future,” 
the other returned. “If you didn’t love her I might 
think it my duty to go back to prison and take my 
punishment like a man. I was a coward to run away. 
But you don’t know the hell of being locked up, 
‘Chubby.’ Jove, I hope you never will know. But 
now I sha’n’t go back.” 

“Why?” 

“Because, don’t you see, if I should turn up again it 
would get into the papers and Myrtice would know, and 
it’s better for her to forget. What could I bring her 
now? ‘Chubby,’ do you suppose I could ask that girl 
to marry a jail-bird? Do you know how a man who 
has once been in prison is marked for life — how every- 
body looks askance at him, how nobody trusts him? 
Oh, I’ve seen it. I’ve heard others tell about it and I’ve 
felt it myself. No , no. The best thing for Myrtice is 
to forget me as soon as possible. I will just disappear. 
I’ll go West; or better still, I’ll go to Australia. You’ll 
help me get away, and there I can begin all over again. 
Don’t you see that’s best, ‘Chubby’ ?” 

But “Chubby” did not reply. 

“Yes, you think so, I know, only you’re too unselfish 



“MYRTICE MEREDITH, * * * WAS SLOWLY DESCENDING.” 

Page 324 


Sherman PI ale. 



The Temptation of a Man in Love 231 


to say so,” Sherman continued eagerly. “Why, man, 
what would you do if you were in my place ? Would 
you ask any girl to marry you ? And if you couldn’t do 
that, wouldn’t you go away so that she could forget? 
Tell me, what would you do?” 

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” “Chubby” replied 
miserably. 

“But I know,” Sherman said. “You or anyone else 
that has any manhood would go away and leave her to 
her happiness. Now, ‘ Chubby,’ help me. Help me to 
be a man.” 

“What can I do?” 

“Lend me the money to go to Australia and begin 
anew.” 

“But ” 

“No, there is no ‘but’ about it. Good God, man, 
don’t you see that is just what I’ve got to do ? Don’t 
try to argue with me. If you do, I may weaken. You 
don’t know how life in prison can unman one. I’m not 
very strong, but I see my duty now as clear as daylight. 
When you acknowledged your love it all flashed over 
me. No, don’t shake your head. Don’t look ashamed 
as though you had stolen something. It’s all right. 
You couldn’t help loving her, and you didn’t know she 
loved me.” 

“No, no, I didn’t know it.” 

“I know that, ‘Chubby.’ You used to be the most 
decent fellow in college. I was jealous of you at first 
just now when I began to remember things, but I think 
it’s all gone. I know you couldn’t be dishonorable. 
But now here’s the position. You can make her happy. 


232 


Sherman Hale 


I can’t. Don’t you see? It is as clear as can be. I 
must go away. Perhaps we can fix it so she will think 
I am dead, and then it will be easier for her. ‘Chubby,’ 
help me to get off. Don’t you see it’s got to be that 
way ?” 

The sorely tempted man let his face fall between his 
hands and groaned aloud. The force of Sherman’s 
argument he could not fail to see, for he had had 
enough experience with the world to know the taint of 
a term of imprisonment. Were he in Sherman’s place 
he knew that he could never ask any girl to be his wife. 
And — and — Myrtice could be happy with him some- 
time. He felt it deep down in his heart. He also felt 
that he knew it from her words. Good God, was ever 
a man so tempted before ? 

All unconscious of his friend’s struggle the voice of 
the tempter continued to argue. 

“Don’t take it that way,” the voice said. “I know 
how you feel. You feel as though you would be buying 
your happiness at my expense. But it isn’t that way. 
I can’t make her happy. Don’t you see that ? And she 
won’t be happy so long as she thinks I am alive. But 
if she thought I were dead, after awhile she could be 
h^ppy with you. I’m not asking you to buy your own 
happiness. I’m just asking that you help me to make 
her happy. And you say you love her. Why, man, if 
you do love her you’ll do anything to make her 
happy. 

“How, I’ll put it to you this way. What do you sup- 
pose will make her happier, to live alone fretting about 
me and my disgrace or to grow to think of me only as a 


The Temptation of a Man in Love 233 


memory, and to become your wife? Which would 
make her happier, ‘Chubby’ ?” 

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” groaned the tor- 
mented man. 

“Yes, you do know, only you’re too modest to say. 
If the case were reversed you would think just as I do, 
and you would act just as I want to act. 

“Listen, man,” he continued rapidly. “I’ve just had 
an inspiration. We can work the thing as easily as not. 
I’m as safe here as can be. I must have been here a 
month or more and nobody knows that I’m here at all. 
I can stay for a week or two longer without any trouble 
whatever. How, you go back to the city. Watch for 
the next boat that sails for Melbourne. Secure passage 
in it for a friend of yours, any old name, and then the 
morning that the boat sails come down for me in your 
motor. There will be very little risk of anyone’s know- 
ing me. After I’m away where I can hold my head up 
I’ll find something to do, and some day I’ll repay you. 
It will be easy enough. Come, will you do it or not ?” 

With head still bent upon his hands “Chubby” made 
no reply. 

“You used to be my friend,” Sherman reminded 
him. 

“Good God, man, stop, stop. How much do you sup- 
pose flesh and blood can stand ? Stop and give me time 
to think.” 

“Well, then, go away and think it over. There’s no 
hurry. I’m safe here. Go back to the Good Samaritan. 
Tell him I’ll stay for awhile at least and take care of 
Major. And ‘Chubby,’ this you must promise. You 


234 


Sherman Hale 


won’t tell Myrtice or anybody else that you Have seen 
me. Promise. Promise, man.” 

With Sherman’s hands gripping his shoulders tightly, 
“ Chubby” gave the promise required. 

“In a few days come back. Think it over as care- 
fully as you wish. But I’m right. I know I’m right. 
And you know it, too. Only you’re afraid you’ll be 
taking too much for yourself. Bosh, man! Think it 
over as though it was some one else’s problem, and do 
just as you’d advise some one else to do in your place. 
Help me to do what you think you would want to 4° 
were our places exchanged. Will you do that?” 

“I’ll try,” “Chubby” said huskily, as he clasped 
Sherman’s hand in his own. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


THE ATTEMPT TO DISPEL AH ILLUSION" 

“Come in.” 

Mr. James Merriweather muttered the words most 
inhospitably, without troubling himself to lift his eyes 
from the absorbing scrutiny of the paper in his hands. 
The door opened softly and some one glided across the 
room and stood by his desk. 

“I have come to ask the visitor began, but Mr. 

Merriweather lifted his hand warningly. 

“Hot a word, not a word,” he said testily, still with- 
out lifting his eyes. “Can’t you see that I’m busy? 
Cigars on the table, wine and liquors in the closet, and 
a newspaper there in the easy chair. Help yourself, 
but don’t bother me. Jove, I believe it is ” 

The little man whipped out bis microscope and bent 
closer over the fascinating bit of paper. His visitor 
checked an impulse to laugh and calmly appropriated 
the easy chair and the newspaper. Eor fully fifteen 
minutes the silence in the room was unbroken save for 
the rustle of the paper and an occasional smothered 
exclamation from the man with the microscope. 

“As sure as I’m a sinner, that’s what it is,” the 
detective exclaimed at last. “It’s a forgery and in the 
husband’s own hand. Look here, you, and let me ex- 
pose the most blatant bit of knavery that has ever come 


Sherman Hale 


236 

■under my observation. A husband sues for a divorce 
from his wife, naming a business competitor as co- 
respondent, and in order to make his case clear he 
forges the man’s handwriting in love letters addressed 
to his own wife. If that doesn’t beat the devil himself 
then I’m a jackass. See this ! It’s as plain as the nose 
on your face.” 

But the visitor did not come to examine the evidence 
of villainy, and after a few more virulent sentences ex- 
pressive of his personal opinion of high society in gen- 
eral and of this instance in particular, the handwriting 
expert lifted his eyes in surprise. 

“Why don’t you come and have a look?” he de- 
manded impatiently. “Don’t you, — gad, it’s a 
woman, — and I told her to help herself to my wine and 
cigars !” 

The sincerity of Mr. Merriweather’s apology was 
somewhat marred by his amusement at the ludicrous 
mistake. 

“I beg your pardon a thousand times,” he murmured, 
bending low before the paper which was still held be- 
fore his visitor’s face. “I’m afraid I have been very 
rude.” 

“You need not be troubled,” the clear voice of 
Myrtice Meredith assured him, as she lowered the paper 
and looked up at him with frank, twinkling eyes. “I 
assure you I have been much entertained — by your 
newspaper,” with a demure little smile. 

“By my absurd explosion you mean,” he corrected. 
“But I can’t help it. The villainy of it all, the shame- 
less, wanton villainy makes me so mad that I cannot 


The Attempt to Dispel an Illusion 237 

contain myself. I hope you enjoyed my hospitality, 
Miss Meredith,” glancing at the box of cigars and the 
bottle on the table. 

“Very much,” she replied with a merry smile. 

Then they both laughed, and in that laugh the dif- 
fident constraint she had felt upon entering his office 
all left her. 

“Well?” He had seated himself where he could 
look at her face and was all attention. 

“I came to ask your help,” she began without embar- 
rassment. “I suppose you will think I am just a 
foolish, superstitious girl, but I had such a vivid waking 
dream last night, and to-day I can’t throw off the feeling 
that it was real.” 

“Ah, the study of dreams is most interesting,” re- 
marked Mr. Merriweather. “I remember a case in 
which a dream saved a man’s life, but that’s a long 
story. Tell me your dream and how I can help you.” 

She hesitatingly related her experience of the night 
before, omitting no detail. And with head averted that 
he might not see her blushes, he listened patiently until 
she had finished. 

“How, what do you make of that?” she asked, as she 
concluded. 

“Evidently you hypnotized yourself again,” he re- 
plied readily, “and you saw what you were last thinking 
about. I’m afraid we can’t make much else out of it.” 

“But the presence was so real,” she insisted. “Mr. 
Merriweather, to-day I can’t believe that Mr. Hale is 
dead. I feel almost sure that he is alive. I hope you 
are not going to laugh at me.” 


Sherman Hale 


238 

“Indeed, no,” he reassured her. “Your feeling is 
most natural, indeed. But Fm afraid, Miss Meredith, 
that it is untrustworthy.” 

She rose and stood before him, clasping and unclasp- 
ing her hands nervously. 

“But I can’t help it, if it is untrustworthy. It’s with 
me, and, Mr. Merriweather, I’m afraid I can’t rest until 
I’m sure — sure that it’s untrue, I mean.” 

“And you want me to dispel the illusion?” he in- 
quired kindly, as he took her hand and led her back to 
the chair. “Well, I certainly will do all that I can. 
But you must tell me first whether you have any more 
definite grounds for your feeling, as you call it.” 

“I went to see Mr. Barrington in jail to-day,” she 
confessed after a moment’s hesitation. 

“Yes ?” inquiringly. 

“And he told me his story in such a way that I could 
but believe him. He says he did not push Mr. Ha'le 
into the water, but that he left him on the wharf and 
ran away because he was frightened at some one’s 
approach.” 

“Yes, I know the story he tells. If you will permit 
me to say so, it sounds most incredible.” 

“But it didn’t sound incredible as he told it to-day. 
Mr. Merriweather, can’t you find out? If it should 
have been some one else that was drowned that day, 
couldn’t you posibly find out about it ?” 

“But I understand the matter has already been in- 
vestigated pretty thoroughly by the police.” 

“Only in a desultory sort of a way, I fancy. They 
didn’t believe Mr. Barrington’s story, you see, so they 


The Attempt to Dispel an Illusion 239 

did not try to find ont whether it might he true or not. 
Oh, Mr. Merriweather, won’t you try ?” 

He shook his head dubiously, but she hurried on. 

“And if it were some other, — oh, it would be so ter- 
rible if we had made a mistake ! So terrible !” 

She sank back in the chair and covered her face with 
her hands. 

“I will do what I can to help you,” he said gently as 
soon as she had recovered composure. “May I ask a 
disagreeable question ? Did you see the body V 9 

“Ho, the casket was sealed.” 

“Who did see it then?” 

“Only Mr. Nichols.” 

“But he knew Mr. Hale very intimately, did he not ? 
It hardly seems as though he could have been mis- 
taken.” 

“But Mr. Hale must have changed so. You see he 
must have suffered very much, and six months can make 
such a difference when one suffers. Don’t you think it 
possible Mr. Nichols may have been mistaken?” 

“Yes, possible,” he admitted slowly. “Mind, I say 
possible . It is not at all probable.” 

“I know. But can’t you act as though you thought 
it were probable ? Can’t you go about hunting for the 
identity of some other poor man just as though you 
believed there was another ? You see the police officers 
have never tried to do that, for they never believed 
Mr. Barrington’s story. They haven’t expected to find 
anything. So, of course, they haven’t. One must be in 
earnest to discover things. Don’t you think so ?” 

He smiled at her reassuringly. “Your philosophy is 


240 


Sherman Hale 


all right, anyway,” he commented. “And certainly yon 
yourself are very much in earnest. I will do what I 
can, but I’m afraid I cannot promise you much hope. 
If you would take my advice, you would go home and 
try to forget your vivid dream.” 

“But I can’t forget. I must know,” she persisted. 

She was silent then for a little while, and her next 
question somewhat surprised him. 

“Mr. Merri weather, have you yet discovered who 
signed that check ?” 

“I thought that that did not matter very much since 
Mr. Hale’s death,” he evaded. 

“But it does matter just the same,” she demurred. 
“I have been so occupied with — my sorrow that of late 
I haven’t thought much about the check. But it matters 
just the same. We want Mr. Hale’s name cleared any- 
way, even though he may never come back to us. Surely 
you can understand that.” 

“Would you want his name cleared, say at the ex- 
pense of some one else’s suffering ?” he asked guardedly. 
“Please think before you reply. Mr. Hale is dead, or 
at least we are acting now under that supposition. So 
the clearing up of his name cannot possibly be of in- 
terest to him. On the other hand, the clearing of his 
name might involve sorrow on the part of some one 
living. Might , I say. Of course I am not perfectly 
sure that it would. But would it be kind to cause 
a living being to suffer for the sake of clearing from 
suspicion the name of one who is dead ?” 

She did not reply immediately, and he watched her 


The Attempt to Dispel an Illusion 241 

face with interest. Evidently the question was one 
which she could not answer without deep thought. 

“It certainly does not seem right to cause another 
needless suffering,” she admitted after awhile. “But 
on the other hand, it does not seem right to let the name 
of a friend remain tarnished by suspicion.” 

“But you know he is innocent,” he reminded her. 

“Yes, I know,” she acquiesced softly. “But I want 
all the world to know it.” 

“Naturally. Most naturally. Still — well, we will 
think it over. Meanwhile, I think our first task is to 
prove that you are deluded in your belief that Mr. Hale 
is alive. I will set myself at work on that immedi- 
ately.” 

“But you haven’t told me all that is in your mind,” 
Myrtice objected, “concerning the one who wrote that 
signature. Who is it that would suffer if the matter 
should be cleared up?” 

“Pardon me, Miss Meredith, if I seem unkind in re- 
fusing to answer just now. It would not do for me to 
arouse any unnecessary suspicions in your mind, nor 
would it be wise for me to express an opinion before 
I am quite sure. I have an experiment to make first.” 

“You have a theory then?” she asked eagerly. “You 
believe you know who it was ?” 

“I believe,” he replied hesitatingly, looking not at 
her but out of the window, “Ah,” with an ex- 

pression of relief, “there is a cab stopping at my door. 
I’m afraid someone is coming up to see me. Miss 
Meredith, shall I show you down stairs ?” 

Before they had reached the foot of the stairs the 


Sherman Hale 


242 

hall door opened without ceremony, and “ Chubby” 
Nichols burst in upon them. 

“Miss Meredith,” he gasped, and the expression on 
his face showed unmistakably that for once he was not 
glad to see her. He quickly recovered himself, however, 
and held out his hand in frank greeting. 

“I was just talking to Mr. Merriweather about that 
old check,” she explained. “I wish you would come to 
see me some time soon, Mr. Nichols. I have something 
I want to tell you.” 

“To-night. I’ll come to-night,” he began eagerly. 
Then suddenly remembering, he added brokenly, “No, 
not to-night. I think — I’m sure I have an engagement. 
To-morrow night, perhaps — or next week.” 

She wondered at his manner. She wondered, too, 
why he did not offer to walk home with her. 

“It’s just the embarrassment because of last night,” 
she concluded. “Poor fellow, I wonder if I ever could 
give him what he wants ?” 

When the two men were left alone in the hall, 
“Chubby” turned to his friend a face that was drawn 
with suffering. 

“My God!” Mr. Merriweather exclaimed. “What is 
the matter with you ? Have you seen a ghost ?” 

“Yes, just that,” “Chubby” replied wearily. “I’ve 
seen a ghost. Come up stairs, ‘Merry/ and give me a 
drink. Then you’ve just got to help me. It’s an awful 
mess, and I don’t know my way out. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


MENTAL PICTURES 

“Chubby” Hichols did not go directly from the motor 
boat to the office of Mr. Merriweather. His first call 
was at the rooms of Dr. Markham for a talk with the 
injured Hermit of Hahant. 

The cold ride up the harbor had not been a particular 
delight to Mr. Hichols. But it was something beside 
the biting east wind which had caused him discomfort. 
The sudden meeting with Sherman Hale had been so 
severe a shock that at first he had been unable to grasp 
the full significance of the return to life of the man 
whom he supposed he had followed to his grave. How, 
on the boat, with the presence of his resurrected friend 
removed, he was able to think more connectedly. 

He thought first of the dead body buried in the 
family lot of Professor Camwell. Whose body was it ? 
What a terrible blunder he must have made when he 
had mistaken that emaciated, bruised face for the 
features of his friend! But how could he now rectify 
the mistake ? How, indeed, if he were to be true to that 
friend who desired above all things to be forgotten? 
Evidently the easiest way out of the matter would be 
to let things drift. If Sherman wished to be considered 
dead, so that he could go off and begin anew, it is what 
he realized he himself should desire in the other’s 


244 


Sherman Hale 


place. Well, let him be dead then. All that “Chubby” 
Nichols had to do was to keep still. 

Then he thought of Myrtice Meredith. He thought 
of her sorrow for her friend, a sorrow which already 
under Time’s merciful softening was losing some of its 
poignancy. Yes, Sherman was right about her. The 
very best thing so far as she was concerned was for Sher- 
man to remain as one dead. His return to life as a con- 
victed criminal would mean the renewal in her sweet 
face of those deep lines of sadness which were already 
beginning to disappear. 

Besides, Sherman was right in his estimate of the 
girl’s character. So long as Myrtice believed her first 
lover to be alive, so long would she he unable to love 
anyone else, and since Sherman, with a blight upon his 
name, could never marry her himself the future of the 
dear girl would he a life-long misery of loneliness. In 
“Chubby’s” imagination the years of her loneliness 
stretched out interminably. He saw her growing old 
with no home of her own. He saw her hair turning 
gray, her eyes dim, and the eyes were always sad, sad 
eyes. He saw the wifely instinct of her normal woman- 
hood all undeveloped, the motherly instinct never 
awakened at all. He saw her old, lonely, and sad. 

Beside this picture of her continued loneliness there 
came to him another vision. It was the vision he had 
seen of late so often in his dreams. In this picture 
Myrtice was in a cozy home surrounded by all the nec- 
essities and comforts of life. At the table she presided 
with womanly grace. In the dining room she was the 
queen of hostesses. In the nursery there shone from her 


Mental Pictures 


245 

face a new and dazzling light, the divine light of that 
motherhood which is every pure woman’s just heritage, 
and without which no woman’s life is quite complete. 
And this home was his home as well as hers. Just to 
imagine it was to “ Chubby” Nichols joy unspeakable. 

As though some will other than his own was manipu- 
lating the pictures of his brain, the vision of the home of 
j°y gradually dissolved, and in its place there appeared 
the portrait of a single, lonely man. The setting of the 
portrait was on foreign shores and the face of the man 
was sad and drawn. It was the portrait of Sherman 
Hale living in exile while his friend and his sweetheart 
were happy at home. 

With a groan “ Chubby” covered his face with his 
hands, trying in vain to shut out from his mind this 
last vision of sadness. 

It was then that there appeared upon the screen 
another picture still. It was the scene of an execution. 
“Chubby” had never witnessed an execution but he had 
read about them and his imagination was keen. He 
saw now most clearly indeed a bare room with the 
heavy, gruesome chair in its center. He saw a little 
procession enter the room slowly; a clergyman in the 
black robes of his office, two officers in blue, a few 
reporters of the press. In the center of the moving 
picture walked the prisoner, with coat removed and with 
the sleeve of his shirt slit in most suggestive and 
sinister significance. The face of the condemned man 
was pale, the eyes full of unspeakable horror. Had 
“Chubby” ever seen that face before ? Yes, now he re- 
membered. It was the face of the cringing criminal in 


Stferman Hale 


246 

jail. It was J. Adams Barrington, anil he was being 
executed for the murder of a man who was still alive. 

It may seem curious that Mr. Nichols had not 
thought of this complication before, but the strain of 
his shock had been severe, and the brief conversation in 
the cabin had turned so quickly and unexpectedly upon 
Myrtice Meredith as completely to exclude all other 
thoughts. Now, with that ghastly picture in his mind, 
he felt himself to be no better than a murderer. He 
loathed himself because he had not thought of the ac- 
cused man sooner. 

‘•I have been a selfish beast,” he muttered in self 
accusation, “a very cad, thinking only of what the 
return to life of this man means to myself. I wish now 
that I had told Sherman of the predicament of Barring- 
ton. But no, that would have resulted only in Sher- 
man’s determination to return at once. No power on 
earth could keep Sherman Hale in seclusion at the pos- 
sible expense of another man’s life. It is better for 
Sherman not to know just yet, until — until I have had 
more time to think.” 

When he reached the wharf he had been able to 
decide only on one thing. Whatever happened to him- 
self, or to Sherman, — yes, and whatever happened to 
Myrtice Meredith, — an innocent man must not suffer. 
Barrington must be freed at any cost. Nor did the 
apparent unworthiness of the man seem to affect the 
justice of this decision. 

“He doesn’t deserve it, by Jove.” “Chubby” solilo- 
quized as he stepped from the motor to the float. “He 
deserves the other. I’m not sure that he would not have 


Mental Pictures 


247 

committed the murder if he had had the courage. But 
he didn’t do it, so that’s all there is to it.” 

He found the injured hermit apparently already re- 
covering from his severe shaking up. 

“Ho, he is not a bit nervous,” Dr. Markham said in 
answer to “Chubby’s” inquiry, “though I’m still afraid 
there’s something wrong inside him. But he is perfectly 
quiet now. Just as soon as you went away last night 
he turned over and went to sleep. Hever saw any man 
sleep more soundly and sweetly. It was like the sleep 
of a child. ‘Chubby,’ my boy, that man has in some 
way found a philosophy of life that is worth while, and 
you and I and most of the rest of us have missed it.” 

“Come in.” The voice of the hermit sounded most 
cheerful. “Ah, it’s you, Mr. Hichols,” as he recognized 
his caller. “You have come to tell me that you have 
been down to the cabin and given my message. It was 
very kind of you. How did you find the boy ?” 

“Very well, indeed,” replied “Chubby” as he took 
the man’s hand. Then absently he added, “I never saw 
him looking any better. Outdoor life must agree with 
him.” 

“Do you know him?” asked the hermit in astonish- 
ment. 

“Chubby” blushed uncomfortably. Then after a 
searching glance at the calm face of the old man, he 
came to a sudden decision. “I didn’t know what I was 
saying,” he admitted. “But perhaps it’s just as well. 
I’m sure I can trust you.” 

“Don’t tell me anything that you don’t want to,” 
hastily interrupted the hermit. “I’m not curious, you 


Sherman Hale 


248 

know. If it will be better for him that I shouldn't know 
who he is, it's all right, though I confess I've grown 
to love the boy during our weeks together." 

“Yes, I know; you couldn't help it," burst out 
“Chubby" with enthusiasm, the remembrance of all of 
Sherman's sterling qualities surging through him. 
“He's one of the best ever. 

“I knew him in college,” he continued simply. “We 
were chums all through the course. After our gradua- 
tion I went abroad, and when I returned last autumn I 
found that he had got into trouble. He's been in prison, 
but he is innocent." 

“I suspected as much," murmured the old man. 

“He escaped," “Chubby" went on, watching the 
gleaming eyes of the hermit, “and found it hard work 
to make things go." 

“Why did he escape ?" 

“High strung, independent fellow. Couldn't stand 
restraint, you understand." 

The old man nodded his head. “Go on with your 
story," he said briefly. “How did he get in my boat 
that night ?" 

“He fell in with an unscrupulous man who had a 
reason for wishing to get him out of the way. The man 
says that he took him down to the wharf and left him 
there in an exhausted condition, while he himself ran 
away, frightened at someone's approach." 

“And the poor fellow climbed down into my boat for 
shelter ?" 

“Yes, probably, or fell down. But he doesn't remem- 
ber what happened to him at all. Hasn't the ghost of 


Mental Pictures 


249 


an idea of how he came to be in your boat, in fact had 
forgotten all about who he was until he saw me to-day. 
Now he knows, and he knows he is mighty grateful to 
you for all you’ve done for him.” 

“ Never mind that part of it. Go on. How did you 
know all this if the poor boy himself didn’t tell you 
about it?” 

“The man who chucked him told me. He’s in jail 
awaiting trial for murder.” 

The blue eyes of the hermit opened in wide astonish- 
ment. “You don’t mean for the murder of the man in 
my cabin ?” he inquired. 

“Yes.” 

The eyes of the hermit resumed their habitual ex- 
pression of calm, the while the most beautiful smile 
illumined his face. 

“Then at last perhaps I shall be able to save a life,” 
he murmured with rapt expression. “Thank God. 
Thank God.” 

“Why? Why, how do you mean?” asked “Chubby” 
in bewilderment. 

“I mean that my testimony will save that poor man 
from the charge of murder. Don’t you see, my testi- 
mony will corroborate his story and he will be freed? 
Young man, you cannot know what it means to me to 
have the opportunity to save a life. This is God’s great 
boon to me. It is, I’m sure, the sign of His forgive- 
ness.” 

“Then you mean to go at once to the officers and tell 
them that Sherman Hale is not dead ?” “Chubby” asked 
excitedly, hardly conscious of what he was saying. 


250 


Sherman Hale 


“You mean to tell them where he is and let the officers 
nab him and take him back to prison ? You are going 
to give up the friend you have been nursing and whom 
you say you have learned to love ? Is that what you are 
going to do ?” 

“Wait, wait.” The old man held up his hand with 
an imperative gesture. “Wait, and let me think.” 

“Did you say that your friend is innocent of the 
charge for which he was committed?” he asked after 
awhile. 

“As innocent as you or I.” 

“Then how did it happen?” 

“He went to prison because he thought the young 
lady whom he loved had done the deed.” 

“Ah, most noble. I thought I was not all wrong. 
The boy has in him the making of a man.” 

“But he escaped ?” he continued after awhile. 

“Yes; as I said, because he was high-strung, inde- 
pendent, and couldn’t stand the restraint.” 

“I remember that is what you said. But it was 
hardly honorable for him to escape, was it? It would 
be the manly thing for him to go back, I think.” 

“Listen a moment,” interrupted “Chubby.” “I, too, 
thought it would be manly for him to go back — at first. 
Perhaps it would be anyway. But, please remember, 
his friends think that he is dead. He can go away 
now without causing them any more sorrow, but if he 
should go back to prison their sorrow would be renewed. 
Do you know, sir, how a man who has been in prison is 
marked for life ? Do you know the stain that is always 
upon his friends ? Sherman wants to go back and take 


Mental Pictures 


251 


his medicine for his own sake, I think I can say that 
most truly ; but for the sake of his friends he has to-day 
planned with me to help him get away where he can 
he forgotten. I don’t know what is right. You tell me.” 

“But the case is complicated, sir. You forget the 
man now in jail accused of murder. Man, man, can we 
decide the question as though it interested only your 
friend ? Here is a man’s very life at stake.” 

“I had thought of that,” “Chubby” said slowly, “and 
I think I have found a way in which we could save 
both men. You must give your testimony, hut you need 
not give it until after I have had time to get Sherman 
out of the country. Then all you need to tell the officers 
is that while you were away the man skipped. Of 
course, it will all make some more talk and the police 
will hunt for him again for a little while, but I think 
we can make him safe and give him a chance to begin 
anew. Don’t you think he ought to have that chance ?” 

“I certainly do.” 

“And you don’t believe in the false kind of justice 
which makes it necessary for him to go back to prison 
to serve out a sentence for something he never did ?” 

“My friend, there is only one kind of justice in the 
world, and that is God’s justice. The justice of men 
can never he perfect, for it is always the product of 
fallible observation, of biased testimony, and of finite 
judgment. I do not hold that we have a right to dis- 
regard the justice of human courts, but my thinking has 
led me to the side of mercy. We should be very careful 
before we do anything that will bring a man under the 
conviction of his fellows.” 


252 


Sherman Hale 


“Then you would help me to keep Sherman out?” 
inquired “Chubby” eagerly. 

“I would do all in my power, consistent with my 
duty to others, to give him the chance to make the best 
man of himself.” 

“Then you will delay your testimony? Will you 
give me two weeks? Barrington’s trial will not come 
up for a month yet. Will you give ?” 

“Did you say the accused man’s name is Barring- 
ton ?” The startled look in the old man’s face 
“Chubby” did not notice. 

“Yes, his whole name is J. 'Adams Barrington, I 
believe. He was private secretary to Sherman Hale’s 
uncle.” 

The aged man did not heed the last words, for when 
“Chubby” had spoken the full name, the hermit turned 
his face toward the wall, mumbling incoherent words 
that sounded something like thanksgiving. 

“Will you give me two weeks before you speak to the 
officers?” “Chubby” reiterated his request, wondering 
at the hermit’s strange manner. 

Without turning his head the old man stretched forth 
his hand. 

“Go away,” he said huskily. “Go away, and come to 
me tomorrow. I have something to tell you. The time 
has come.” 

Much bewildered, “ Chubby” touched the outstretched 
hand and hurried from the room. 

It was then that he ordered his cabman to drive to the 
apartments of Mr. Merriweather. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


SAVED FROM HIMSELF X 

“It’s just the devil of a mess,” “ Chubby” declared 
from the depth of Merriweather’s great chair, “a very 
devil of a mess, and I’m all broken up. ‘Merry,’ I’ve 
got to tell you. I don’t care if I did promise to tell no 
one, I’ve got to tell you. I’ve just got to have' some 
advice about this.” 

“Well then, out with it,” Mr. Merri weather said 
resignedly as he lighted a cigar. “I’ve had a good 
many experiences for one of my youthful appearance, 
but I’m willing to add that of Father Confessor. What 
have you been doing, my son? Go ahead, spit it out, 
and when you get through I’ll say 'absolvo tef in ap- 
proved priestly fashion. What is it ?” 

“It isn’t me,” “Chubby” replied ungrammatically, 
but earnestly. “At least I don’t think it’s me. Per- 
haps I’m mixed up in it some. It’s Sherman Hale.” 

Merri weather held up his hands in a gesture of mock 
despair. 

“That man again!” he ejaculated. “By the shades 
of Homer, Aristotle, Napoleon, and all the rest, am I 
never to hear the last of that man? When a man is 
dead and buried why can’t you let him rest ?” 

“But he isn’t dead.” 

“Ah !” As the detective uttered the single exclama- 


254 


Sherman Hale 


tion, he tilted back his chair, put his feet upon the 
table, and with half-closed eyes began to blow smoke 
rings upward toward the ceiling. In this attitude of 
apparent indifference, which, however, in his case signi- 
fied most intense interest, he waited patiently for 
“ Chubby” to continue with his disclosure. 

Mr. JSTichols helped himself to a second glass (of wine. 

“That scalawag Barrington has been telling the truth 
after all,” he blurted out, using short, agitated sen- 
tences, as was his invariable custom when excited. “He 
left Sherman alone on the wharf and skipped. Some- 
body else must have gone down and jumped over, and 
I made a ghastly mistake. An old hermit found Sher- 
man in his skiff. Must have crawled in when he was 
exhausted, though he doesn’t remember anything about 
it. The hermit took Sherman down to his cabin. 
Hursed him back to health. The old man got hurt last 
night. Was taken to Markham’s rooms and Markham 
sent me down to Nahant to-day to his cabin to report 
the accident. And I saw Sherman. Good God, man, do 
you wonder that I looked as though I’d seen a ghost ?” 

Merriweather did not open his eyes, as he continued 
blowing the smoke rings into the air most imper- 
turbably. 

“Why don’t you say something?” “Chubby” de- 
manded impatiently. 

“I’m waiting for you to finish,” came the calm reply. 

“I have finished. What more is there to tell?” 

“I want to know what you are going to do about 
it.” 

“I don’t know. Jove, man, if I did know I shouldn’t 


Saved from Himself 255 

be here whining to you. I want you to tell me what 
to do.” 

The blue rings ascended to the ceiling with exas- 
perating deliberation. 

“Well!” “Chubby” was getting nettled. 

“How about Barrington?” Mr. Merriweather ap- 
parently asked the question of the tobacco smoke. 

“Yes, that’s it, Barrington. Of course, we’ve got to 
clear him.” 

“And how about Miss Meredith?” 

“What do you mean ?” angrily. 

“I mean how are you going to tell her ?” 

“I promised Sherman I wouldn’t tell,” 

“Ah!” 

“Yes, he wants to get off where he can begin again, 
and he doesn’t want to bring any more shame to his 
friends.” 

“Ah!” 

“Say, can’t you say anything else but ‘Ah’? Why 
don’t you wake up and tell me what to do ? What do 
you suppose I’m telling you all this for ?” 

“I’m sure I don’t know.” Still Mr. Merriweather 
was idly watching the rings of smoke ascending from 
his cigar. 

“Well, you ought to know. I’m telling you because 
I want you to help me.” 

“What do you want me to do?” 

“I want you tell me how I can save Barrington from 
the electric chair and at the same time help Sherman 
to get away.” 


Sherman Hale 


256 

“But your friend Sherman is an escaped convict,” 
Mr. Merriweather reminded him. 

"Well, what if he is? He is innocent and he ought 
to have a chance. Who says he ought to go back to that 
blamed prison?” 

"I didn’t say so,” the other remarked. 

"Ho? Well, then, what in the devil do you mean?” 

"Perhaps I mean that he ought to come hack to Miss 
Myrtice Meredith.” The eyes of the little man were 
open now and he was watching "Chubby’s” face with 
the keenest interest. 

"What do you mean by that?” "Chubby” stammered, 
blushing under the other’s close scrutiny. 

Mr. Merriweather took his feet from the table with 
extreme deliberation. He rose from his chair, walked 
over to "Chubby’s” side and put one hand on his 
shoulder affectionately. 

" ‘Chubby,’ my boy, this thing has upset you. It’s 
made you see crooked. 

"Ho, no,” he continued, as the other man began to 
expostulate. "Don’t interrupt me. I know what you 
are going to say. You are going to say that Hale de- 
serves a chance to begin anew. You are going to remind 
me that here with the taint of his prison experience he 
will have no fair chance at all. You are going to tell 
me, too, that it will be too bad to resurrect all the shame 
of it, with its consequent, suffering for his friends. 
And, ‘Chubby,’ my boy, you’ll believe all you say. 
You think you are honest and unselfish in it all. But 
all the time way down deep within you there is some- 
thing which is saying, ‘If he does come back he may 


Saved from Himself 257 

marry Miss Meredith, and if he remains dead, some 
day she may be mine/ 

“ISTo, no,” The friendly hand npon “ Chubby’s” 
shoulders tightened its grip as the young man struggled 
to rise. “ Don’t get up and hit me yet. I have some- 
thing else to say. ‘Chubby,’ it’s the most natural feel- 
ing in the world. I’m not blaming you a mite, not a 
single bit. Besides, there is some truth in these and 
other things that you are thinking. Bor some reasons 
it would be better for him to get away. It would be 
pleasanter for him and for his people if they did not 
have to go through the shame and sorrow. But listen, 
my boy, the best place for a man to begin anew, the 
very best place is in his own home among his own 
people, and you and I have no right to help a man to 
his second best when we can help him to the first best. 

“Don’t get up just yet,” as “Chubby” tried again to 
rise. “I want to finish. It isn’t often I preach, is it? 
An d I’m not really preaching now, I’m only just telling 
you a few truths. ‘Chubby,’ you are all right. In 
your right mind you would no more think of taking 
advantage of your friend’s desire to get away than you 
would think of robbing him of his watch or of his 
pocket-book. You’ve just had a shock, that’s all, and it’s 
unnerved you. Yow come with me over to the Club. 
It’s already past lunch time. We’ll get a quiet corner 
all to ourselves, have a good feed, a good cigar after- 
wards, and perhaps a game of billiards. Then you’ll 
feel better and we can talk the matter over straight. 
Come.” 

The face that looked up at him from the great easy 


Sherman Hale 


258 

chair was drawn and haggard. Merriweather could not 
avoid the feeling that the boy had aged ten years in as 
many minutes. The detective turned abruptly away 
and began to busy himself with his preparations for 
going out. 

He had on his top coat and hat and his hand was on 
the knob of the door before he again looked at the man 
huddled in a heap in the easy chair. 

“Come,” he said again. 

The man rose from the chair and groped for the hat 
which he had thrown upon the table When he had 
found it and had jammed it upon his head, he turned 
his haggard, sunken eyes towards his friend. 

“ ‘Merry,’ ” he said huskily, “ you’ve been a good 
friend to me to-day. I think you’ve done something 
more than just to save a man’s life. You have saved 
me from myself.” 

A suspicious moisture gathered in the eyes of the 
detective as he clasped his friend’s outstretched hands, 
a moisture which the characteristic, nonchalant shrug of 
his shoulders tried in vain to deny. 

“Nonsense,” was what he said. “I tell you, you 
would have seen it yourself if you had only waited until 
the shock to your nerves was over.” 

As they walked together to the Club he began to tell 
“Chubby” about his interesting discovery of the 
morning. 

“The rankest piece of villainy imaginable,” he 
stormed. “Think of a man forging love letters to his 
own wife in the name of a business enemy. Jove, 
when I think of the wickedness in the world in which 


Saved from Himself 


259 

we live I’m sometimes inclined to wonder whether God 
or the devil is at the helm. But we’ll bring this villain 
up, ‘Chubby/ my boy. We’ll bring him up so sharp 
that he’ll hardly know what’s hit him. 

“Ah, here we are at the Club. Now for a good 
lunch. We’ll make it a dinner, I think, ‘Chubby/ 
what do you say ? A dinner of full courses, and wine 
and cigars afterwards. 

“Ah, here’s ‘Billy Bluff’ of His Excellency’s staff, 
the Governor’s chief adviser. Billy,” elevating his 
voice so that the man in the reading room might hear. 
“Come with us. ‘Chubby’ and I have had a hard morn- 
ing and we’re going to dine. Don’t you dare to say 
‘Ho.’ His Excellency can get along without your sage 
counsel for an hour or two, and be mighty glad to be 
rid of you.” 

The portly “Billy Bluff,” known officially at the 
State House as Mr. William J. Buffington of His Ex- 
cellency’s Council, rose from his chair with commend- 
able alacrity, and when he had greeted the two friends 
jocularly the three passed together into the dining- 
room. 


CHAPTER XXX 


A CHANCE BIT OF NEWS 

Sherman Hale stood on the pebbly beach watching 
until his friend had rowed out to the waiting motor, 
and until the motor itself was lost to his view behind 
the neck of land. He was bare headed, and wore no 
outer coat, but not in the least did he mind the chill of 
the sharp east wind which tossed his long, wavy hair 
and which penetrated the worn old gray coat which had 
been his purchase from the Jew. 

Sturdily stalwart and physically fit for anything was 
this man hardened by healthy outdoor life and 
strengthened by toil with the axe and the oar. As 
“Chubby” Xichols inadvertently remarked to the her- 
mit, Sherman Hale never looked better, not even when 
he was in trim for a hard foot-ball game against Yale. 

After the boat was no longer visible the watching 
man squared his shoulders to the buffeting wind and 
drank deep draughts of the crisp, salt air. 

“It’s good to feel strong again,” he said aloud as he 
turned back to the cabin. “Yes, it’s good to be alive 
and it’s good to know who you are even if ” 

He did not finish the sentence, for the dog bounding 
by his side was looking up into his face with a puzzled 
expression. 

“You don’t understand, do you, Major. You’re won- 
dering where the master is. Well, he’s got hurt and he 


A Chance Bit of News 


261 

can’t be here for a little while. But I understand it’s 
only a little accident and he’ll be back pretty soon. 
He’ll be back and I’ll be gone. Heigho, it isn’t so easy 
to go away into exile after all. It would be good if we 
could get just one more glimpse of the little girl, 
wouldn’t it now ? But I expect it won’t be best. It 
wouldn’t be best for her. 

“How, Major, let’s stop thinking and get inside out 
of the wind, and think what we’ll do for the rest of the 
day.” 

But when he was inside the cabin with the door 
carefully closed against the wind, in spite of his own 
prohibition he fell to thinking again. The strain of the 
meeting with his old friend had been as severe for him 
as for “Chubby.” The awakening of his memory had 
not been unaccompanied with a nervous strain. But 
above all, the sacrifice which he had set himself to make 
for Myrtice’s sake, — though he could carry it through 
with a rush in his friend’s presence, now that he was 
alone, began to weigh upon him heavily. How he knew 
its cost, and the cost well-nigh overwhelmed him. 

“Chubby’s” very words had increased the cost of the 
sacrifice, for had he not said, “Ho, she loves you.” 

“But never to see her again,” he groaned, sinking into 
the chair by the table and dropping his head upon his 
arms. “To go away and always be alone. 0 God,” — 
It was a prayer wrung from a suffering heart — “O God, 
make me man enough to do this thing for her sake. It 
would be selfish to remain and remind her of her 
thoughtless wrong and of my shame. It’s best for her, 
and I must go.” 


262 


Sherman Hale 


After awhile the whining of the dog aroused him from 
his misery. He lifted his drawn face and looked 
about him. The fire was out and the room was growing 
cold. 

“Major, you’re right to give me a hint,” he said, 
patting the dog’s head. “It’s past dinner time, and so 
long as we live we’ve got to eat, I suppose.” 

He rebuilt the fire and filled the dog’s plate with 
pieces of stale bread and the remainder of the meat 
bones. Then he turned to the closet to see what was 
left for himself. 

“A half loaf of bread, a dozen crackers, a piece of 
salt pork,” he enumerated the articles aloud, “a little 
pat of butter, three eggs, two slices of ham, and hardly 
two spoonfuls of coffee. I’m afraid, Major, I’ve been 
diminishing the Good Samaritan’s grub pretty fast. 
But, of course, he expected to bring some down to-day, 
and he can’t come. There are those potatoes in the 
cellar hole, I know, but they won’t go very far. You 
and I have got to tramp it over to the village this after- 
noon. That’s what for us. And perhaps the sooner 
we go the better. I’ll just rustle together a bite for 
myself, and then we’ll be off.” 

The village store was fully two miles away from the 
cabin and there was no beaten path. But Sherman 
was not thinking of the rocks and bushes as he started 
out with his basket over his arm, while the delighted 
dog bounded at his heels. He was thinking instead 
that for the first time in many weeks he would have to 
meet strangers. So far as he knew, no one of the vil- 
lagers suspected his presence in the hermit’s cabin, and 


A Chance Bit of News 263 


he realized that their continued ignorance would he 
one of the safe-guards which would help him in his 
plans. Moreover, with his reawakened memory there 
had returned to him something of the former unman- 
ning fear and dread of discovery. As he started out to 
meet again a fellow being, he found to his dismay that 
the dread was finding him defenseless. 

He had taken the precaution to put on the disguise 
which he had found in the pocket of his old coat. But 
his changed appearance brought him but little com- 
fort. 

He tried to whistle cheerily as he trudged on, but the 
snap of a twig in the wind was enough to frighten the 
whistle away. He attempted to talk to the dog. But 
by this time he was in the open where any moment he 
might meet the dreaded stranger, and in spite of his 
will he found that his vpice would come only in the 
faintest whisper. By and by the stranger came. It 
was only a boy with his dinner pail over his arm cross- 
ing lots homeward from school. The boy stopped when 
he caught sight of Sherman and stood with his hands 
thrust deep in his pockets, staring impudently. Beads 
of perspiration started to the man’s forehead, and it 
was only with the greatest effort that he could give the 
boy a friendly nod and pass on his way. 

"It's no use, Major,” he said after the boy was gone, 
but the words were spoken so low that the dog at his 
heels did not hear them. “It’s no use. I’m just a plain 
coward after all. That prison has taken all the gimp 
out of me.” 

He sat down on a rock and tried to regain possession 


Sherman Hale 


264 

of his nerves. After awhile he rose and squared his 
shoulders bravely. 

“But I won’t be a coward,” and there was a strong 
ring in his voice which attracted the dog’s attention. 
“What’s the use ? If I’m caught I’m caught, that’s all, 
and I’ll try to take my medicine like a man.” 

With this new declaration of courage he strode 
rapidly onward and his resolution did not fail him 
until he entered the little village. 

The man behind the counter of the village store eyed 
him curiously. “Guess ye’re a stranger about these 
parts ?” he ventured as he proceeded leisurely to fill his 
customer’s order. The comment should be marked with 
an interrogation point, for it was meant for a friendly 
question. Sherman made no reply. 

“Don’t see many strangers here in winter,” the old 
storekeeper continued by way of apology for his inter- 
est. “Thought I knowed every darned person that lived 
within five miles. Be you a boardin’ somewheres ?” 

“I’m just stopping for a day or two with a friend.” 
Sherman tried to make his voice sound natural and 
easy. 

“Oh!” The storekeeper was deliberately weighing 
a piece of cheese. 

“Dawg looks kinder like the hermit’s,” was his next 
remark. “Hain’t never seen the hermit myself, but saw 
his dawg twice when I was over that way after clams. 
Yer don’t happen ter know the hermit, dew yer ?” 

“Only very slightly,” Sherman replied, not knowing 
how else to meet the direct question. 

“ Yeou don’t say. Didn’t know anybody knowed him. 


A Chance Bit of News 265 


Darned queer cuss ter live out there all alone with jest 
a dawg. What kind of a feller is he anyhow ?” 

But Sherman, thinking the conversation had gone 
as far as it was safe, had sauntered over to the opposite 
counter and was idly fingering a pile of newspapers. 
To change the current of the garrulous old man’s 
thoughts he took a morning Herald from the pile, and 
holding it in his hand remarked casually, 

“I see they had quite a fire in Boston last night” 
<r Yes. They’re always havin’ fires there. Spend a 
darned lot of money fer steam engines ’n’ hose wagons 
’n’ such like, but don’t seem able ter keep the fires down. 
Lost more’n a hundred thousand, I see. That’s a good 
big pile of money ter lose in an hour, ain’t it ?” 

“Yes, it is.” Sherman was relieved that the cross- 
questioning seemed over. “You may put this paper in 
with the rest of the stuff. I’ll take it home and read 
about the fire.” 

With his basket finally filled he set out on the return 
trip almost merrily. The ordeal had not been so very 
bad after all, and he felt somewhat more of a man for 
having gone through it successfully. His spirits rose 
still higher as he left the village behind him, and 
when at last he reached the cabin he found himself 
singing quite cheerfully. 

The dog ran ahead and was whining piteously at the 
door of the cabin when Sherman approached. 

“It doesn’t seem natural without the master, does it, 
Major ?” Sherman said, bending down to pat the dog’s 
shaggy side. “It’s pretty tough to have to live with- 


266 


Sherman Hale 


out one’s friends, isn’t it? Yes, my God, it’s tougH. 
But it’s best for her. I hope I sha’n’t forget that.” 

The rekindled fire was burning cheerily and the 
fresh provisions were put away in the tiny closet before 
he again thought of the newspaper. With idle curiosity 
he took it from the table where he had carelessly thrown 
it, and as he seated himself in the big chair beside the 
stove he remarked aloud, 

“It does seem queer to have a newspaper. I can 
remember clearly now the last time I looked at one. 
It was that night when I read the account of my escape 
and got such a jolt, and I haven’t wanted to look at one 
of the things since, though, of course, down here if I 
had wanted to, I couldn’t.” 

While he thus soliloquized, trying to make company 
for himself by talking out loud, he was carelessly 
turning over the pages of the paper. 

“Sports,” he commented. “Reports of the candle pin 
games, with one of Wallace Goldsmith’s inimitable car- 
toons. That looks familiar. Gossip of the coming base- 
ball season. Humph! Boston, it seems, is to have 
another winning team. That will be good.” 

He turned to another page. 

“Theatre attractions for the week. Sothern and 
Marlowe. Well, we should like to see them again, 
shouldn’t we, Major ? But I suppose you’ve never seen 
them, Major. Oh, dog, you don’t know what you’ve 
missed by not being a man, — nor what you’ve gained 
either.” 

Another page was turned. 

“Mid-week book notices. Ah, that might be inter- 


A Chance Bit of News 267 


esting. I’ll look them over by and by, and I’ll have 
‘Chubby’ get me some new books to read on the 
steamer.” 

Still another page. 

“Editorials. Politics, the eternal politics. A criti- 
cism of the President’s last message. That will be 
worth while ; I’ll read it. And I’ll read the ‘Chatterer,’ 
too. That’s always interesting. How let’s see over here. 
Court news. Divorce cases, and, — Good God, what does 
that mean ?” 

ITe gripped the paper savagely with both hands and 
held it at arm’s length as though it were a thing ac- 
cursed, the while his distended, horror-stricken eyes 
were fastened upon a single brief paragraph. 

“The trial of J. Adams Barrington for the murder 
of Sherman Hale will ” 

But that is all he could read. The remaining words of 
the paragraph danced before his eyes, refusing to come 
to logical order. 

• “The trial of J. Adams Barrington for the murder 
lof Sherman Hale!” 

Slowly the import of the words forced itself into his 
mind. So he was thought to be dead already and 
“Chubby” had not told him. Why not? Why had he 
kept this thing a secret? Ah, that accounted for the 
man’s strange demeanor when he had first seen him. 
It must have been like looking at a ghost. But why 
hadn’t he told him? 

Dead! Dead and murdered! So that is what they 
thought. Myrtice had been mourning and now she was 
getting over it Yes, already she must be beginning to 


268 


Sherman Hale 


forget him. Well, that was better so. It made the 
going away more imperative, and it made it easier. 

But this man who was supposed to have killed him ? 
This J. Adams Barrington ? Ah, he was the man who 
had been his uncle’s secretary. He remembered that 
once he had laughingly suggested to Myrtice his fear 
that this man might make love to her ! What if he had 
done so ! What if that had been the supposed motive ! 
There must be a motive, of course. They could not 
hold a man for murder unless some motive had been 
suggested. 

With painful eagerness he again took up the paper, 
and this time he compelled his eyes to read the para- 
graph to the end. 

The probable date of the trial was given, but to this 
he gave but little heed. The motive, the motive — 
would that be indicated ? Yes, here it was. 

“The accused man still insists upon his first story,” 
he read. “He has not faltered in his declaration that 
he did not murder Hale, but left him on the wharf 
while he ran away. He admits his desire to be rid of 
the man, however, and the case against him is very 
strong. The probable motive for the crime, it will be 
remembered, was the man’s infatuation for Hale’s 
sweetheart.” 

“The cad,” Sherman exclaimed, dropping the paper 
to the floor. “The mean, despicable puppy! He made 
love to her, did he ? And he wanted to be rid of me be- 
cause he thought he could get her! He make love to 
Myrtice Meredith! O God, if I could only get my 
hands on him.” 


A Chance Bit of News 269 


He paced back and forth in the narrow quarters of 
the cabin, with clenched fists and blazing eyes. But 
soon there came the inevitable revulsion of feeling. 

“But he’s doomed,” he said, sinking into his chair. 
“He’s going to be tried for murder, and the circum- 
stantial evidence is against him. Blast his hide. He’s 
as mean and low as Satan himself, but I can’t let him 
die for something he never did. I can’t, I can’t.” 

He sank into the chair, and covering his face with 
his hands he groaned aloud. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


A MIDNIGHT VISITOR 

“Now, my boy, let’s have it out.” 

It was late in the evening of the eventful day of 
“Chubby” Nichols’ visit to the cabin of the hermit. 
With his two friends, Merri weather and Buffington, the 
young man had passed a pleasant afternoon and evening. 
The dinner had been followed by billiards, and the 
billiards by a lunch and a visit to the theater. 

The conversation of his two older friends had been 
racy and entertaining. They had talked of politics and 
of finance, of literature and of the stage. Mr. Buffington 
had related some of the interesting things that had 
come under his observation in connection with the ad- 
ministration of the affairs of the Commonwealth. 
While Mr. Merriweather-diad been equally entertaining 
in his account of various episodes in the line of the 
detection of crime. 

After awhile, under the influence of all this cheery 
chatter, “Chubby” Nichols’ face relaxed its strained, 
drawn expression, and the old familiar, contagious smile 
took its place. He could not equal his friends in the 
number of interesting things from his own experience, 
for he was younger by ten years than either of the 
other men. But he had travelled much, with eyes wide 
open. He could tell a story well, and no one of all the 


A Midnight Visitor 271 

Club men could surpass his delicious humor, or attain 
his power of mimicry. 

The misery was all gone from his face, when at last 
Mr. Buffington took his departure, leaving “ Chubby” 
and Mr. Merriweather by themselves in “ Chubby V’ 
apartments. 

“Now, out with it,” Mr. Merriweather repeated, as 
with a freshly lighted cigar between his teeth he seated 
himself where he could watch “Chubby’s” face. 
“You’ll sleep better if we get it all over and lay our 
plans for to-morrow’s work. For if I mistake not, my 
hoy, to-morrow will he a somewhat busy day.” 

“Well, what shall we do first?” inquired “Chubby” 
from his favorite lounging chair. “You say.” 

“First? Well, let’s see. I fancy in the first place 
one or both of us would better look up the old hermit, 
who you say is lying on his hack at Dr. Mark- 
ham’s.” 

“I saw him to-day before I came to you,” “Chubby” 
remarked. “I forgot to tell you.” 

“How did you find him? Is he ready to testify?” 

“Yes, he wants to testify. He’ll be out in a week 
or two I imagine, and he seems quite possessed with 
the idea of saving Barrington.” 

“Ah! Something of a crank is he?” 

“I can’t make out. He’s a queer duck. Markham 
says he has a philosophy of life that the rest of us ought 
to have. You’d better go with me to see him to-morrow. 
You’ll find him an interesting study.” 

“All right, I will. We’ll call on the old man in the 
morning, say ten o’clock. Can you get around so early, 


272 


Sherman Hale 


you lazy good-for-nothing ? I think, my boy, we'll get 
his deposition and carry it right to headquarters." 

“So soon?" 

“Yes, it won't do to wait. Think how you would feel 
in Barrington's place with this thing hanging over you. 
Why, man, it's only common humanity to want to get 
him out as soon as possible." 

“I suppose so," “Chubby" acquiesced without 
warmth. 

“Then you must go to see Miss Meredith," his friend 
continued. 

“Jove, man, must I do that?" 

“No other way that I can see." Merri weather was 
apparently watching the blue rings of smoke from his 
cigar, though his keen eyes beneath the half-closed lids 
were taking in every expression in his companion's 
face. 

“Can’t you go?" “Chubby" demurred weakly. 

“No, that won't do. You’re her friend and I'm only 
a chance acquaintance, a professional acquaintance as it 
were. And, ‘Chubby,' don't you see that the sooner 
you get this over the better it will be for you as well 
as for her? And think of the girl! Won't she be 
happy when she hears that Hale is alive ?" 

“Yes," the young man groaned. “But how can I tell 
her?" 

“You'll have to lead up to it gradually, of course. 
Don't frighten her by blurting it out abruptly. Tell 
her about the hermit's accident first. Oh, you’ll fix it 
all right. Only before you leave her house you must 
have told her that Hale is both alive and well. And, 


A Midnight Visitor 273 

‘Chubby/ my boy, I think you can tell her something 
else.” 

“What ?” wonderingly. 

“You may tell her from me that I hope soon to 
establish Mr. Hale’s innocence in a way that would be 
accepted by any court in the land.” 

“But how can you do that?” 

“It’s a long story, and it means that I, too, must be 
busy to-morrow. You wait and you’ll find out.” 

“How you amateur detectives like to keep a fellow 
in suspense, don’t you?” “Chubby” muttered. “Jove, 
but you’re an egotistical bunch.” 

“That may be,” replied Merriweather imperturbably, 
“but we don’t like to give away the game before we are 
sure of our cards.” 

“Then you are not sure?” 

“Ho, I only said you might tell her that I hoped.” 

“Yes, but you wouldn’t have me tell her that unless 
you were reasonably sure.” 

“Possibly not,” murmured the detective, addressing 
the smoke rings. 

“Why don’t you tell a fellow?” queried “Chubby” 
impatiently. “What’s the use of making all this 
mystery ?” 

“ ‘Chubby/ my boy, you remind me of an old hen 
who is fabled to have pecked holes in the eggs upon 
which she was sitting in order to watch the development 
of the chickens within. The result was disastrous, as I 
remember the story. If you will credit it, not a single 
egg hatched, and the poor old curious hen was left 
childless. 


274 


Sherman Hale 


“My boy, let me impress this truth upon your some- 
what feeble intellect. Some things develop best with- 
out too much outside interference. ” 

“That’s a fine euphemism which means that you want 
me to mind my own business,” commented “Chubby” 
with a laugh which showed that he was in no ways 
offended. 

“Exactly,” Merriweather replied. “You have shown 
remarkable keenness. You have grasped my meaning 
with most unusual celerity. Now, one thing more I 
want you to do while you are at Miss Meredith’s.” 

“Yes?” 

“I want you to arrange for me to spend to-morrow 
night at her home. You can come, too, if you like, 
and if she is willing. You’ll do just as well as any- 
body else for a witness. Just say it’s an experiment.” 

“It’s rather an unusual request, isn’t it?” remon- 
strated “Chubby.” “It might inconvenience her.” 

“Nonsense. I don’t mean that she is to provide us 
with sleeping rooms. I fancy we sha’n’t feel like sleep- 
ing. But you’ll do it?” 

“Oh, yes, I’ll do anything. You can concoct your 
shrewd schemes and be as blamed noncommittal as you 
please, and I’ll be the good, trustful little boy follow- 
ing a blind trail obediently. I obey, most learned sir.” 

“Thanks,” returned the other drily. 

Eor some moments then he sat silently in his chair, 
with his feet elevated above his head, while he contem- 
plated the rings of smoke which he was slowly and 
regularly puffing from his mouth. 

“I don’t know but what that is all,” he said at last, 


A Midnight Visitor 


275 


lowering his feet to the floor. “It’s all for you to do.” 

“But what will you he doing meanwhile?” 

“Ah, the old hen again pecking at the shells. 
'Chubby/ I’m going home now. You take my advice. 
Turn in at once. It’s midnight already. Get a good 
long sleep and at ten o’clock call for me and we’ll go to 
see the hermit. Do you know, I’m rather anticipating 
that call ? You have succeeded in arousing my interest 
in that old man. I hope I shall not be disappointed.” 

As he talked Mr. Merriweather was already putting 
on his top coat, and with his hand on the door knob he 
turned to bid his friend good-night. 

“It’s been a hard day, 'Chubby/ and, old boy, I’m 
afraid there are harder days coming. But sometime 
you’ll not be sorry. Jove, who’s that at this time of 
night ?” 

For as he opened the hall door a loud peal of the 
outer door bell rang through the room. 

“You’d better come back and see who it is,” 
“Chubby” remarked quietly. “I don’t know that I 
have any midnight guests whom I’m ashamed to intro- 
duce to my friends.” 

Even as he spoke “Chubby’s” man was showing up a 
stranger. 

“He wouldn’t wait, sir,” the servant apologized with 
an injured air. “Pushed right by me, and I had to 
come with him or let him burst into your room un- 
announced, and he’s left a dirty dog at the door, too, 
sir.” 

The servant stood one side as he spoke and behind 
him in the doorway loomed the figure of a man dressed 


Sherman Hale 


276 

in an old gray suit, overtopped by a well-worn black 
overcoat. The man wore a light brown beard and his 
eyes were hidden behind a pair of dark spectacles. 

Both men eyed the stranger with deep curiosity. 
With “ Chubby” the curiosity soon gave place to anger 
at the unseemly intrusion, but in Merriweather the 
curiosity only deepened, as the detective kept his eyes 
fixed upon the stranger’s face. 

“What do you mean by breaking in upon a gentle- 
man at this time of night?” began “ Chubby.” 

Merriweather held up a warning hand. 

“Ask your visitor,” he said smoothly, “to take off his 
beard and his spectacles. They are not needed among 
his friends.” 

With an exclamation of fear, the stranger turned 
to leave the room, but Merriweather was too quick for 
him. The detective slipped behind the man and closed 
the door. 

“No, no,” he expostulated. “Don’t be frightened. 
You are among your friends. I fancy you felt the 
necessity of that disguise on the street. But here it is 
not needed. Please oblige me by removing it.” 

Slowly, but still trembling, the stranger complied. 

“Sherman Hale,” gasped “Chubby” sinking back into 
his chair. 

“Yes,” remarked Mr. Merriweather. “Sherman 
Hale, a man whom we are both delighted to see.” 

“But how did you know him ?” “Chubby” demanded. 
“You never saw him in your life.” 

“I have seen his picture,” the detective replied 
quietly. 


A Midnight Visitor 


277 


“ Yes— but ?” 

“And his picture shows that the left side of his nose 
is not quite straight. I fancy you may have broken that 
nose, Mr. Hale, at some time. Perhaps in a football 
game. You should have added a new nose to your 
otherwise excellent disguise.” 

Sherman lifted his hand to the offending member and 
smiled dubiously. 

“I was just leaving as you entered, Mr. Hale,” Mr. 
Merriweather continued, as neither of the other men 
seemed inclined to speak, “and as I imagine you and 
your friend have much to talk about, I will beg your 
permission to go at once. ‘Chubby/ you may tell him 
what I have told you to-night, if you wish, and tomor- 
row you had better leave him locked up in your rooms. 
It might spoil our plans if he should be seen in the 
streets just yet. Some one else might recognize that 
crooked nose, though it is not likely I admit. Some men 
are very unobserving, and your disguise was really quite 
effective, Mr. Hale. I congratulate you. Good-night.” 

With a quiet chuckle he was gone, leaving the friends 
alone. 

The light of the coming dawn was peeping into the 
windows before either of the two men thought of their 
beds. 


CHAPTER XXXII 

THE HERMIT’S CONFESSION 


The sun was hardly an hour high when “ Chubby’s” 
restless dreams were interruped by a loud knocking at 
his bedroom door. 

“Come in,” he said sleepily. 

“It’s a call at the telephone, sir,” his man said re- 
spectfully. “It’s Dr. Markham, sir, and he wants you 
to come to his office right away.” 

“The devil he does,” muttered “Chubby” as he turned 
his face towards the wall for another snooze. “Well, 
tell him I can’t do it I’m asleep.” 

“He told me, sir, to tell you that the man was worse,” 
the servant persisted apologetically, ”and that he wanted 
to see you.” 

“Why didn’t you say that in the first place?” 
“Chubby” demanded, springing from his bed. “Come, 
hurry up. Where’s my shirt and my shoes ? Confound 
you, can’t you move ?” 

In the act of tying his cravat “Chubby” thought of 
Sherman Hale asleep in the adjoining room. 

“Dobson, wake up Mr. Hale, will you?” 

“Ah, Sherman,” as a minute later his guest appeared 
in one of “Chubby’s” dressing gowns, “I’ve had a 
telephone message from Markham. The hermit is 
worse, he says, and wants to see me. Do you want to 
go, too ?” 


The Hermit’s Confession 279 

“Of course,” replied his guest without a moment’s 
hesitation. “There’s no question about my wanting to 
go. I hope the good old Samaritan isn’t done for. But 
your friend said I’d better stay in to-day, didn’t he ?” 

“Oh, bother my friend. He’s an old fussy budget. 
You’re safe enough. Put on a suit of mine. Dobson, 
get out my blue serge, will you, and my heavy ulster. 
Quick, man. We can’t be moping around here all day.” 

The discreet Dobson did as he was told, and if he 
allowed himself any secret glances towards the stranger 
who had come at midnight in disguise, no outward sign 
of interest was manifest in his imperturbable counte- 
nance. 

Thus it happened that it was Sherman Hale and not 
James Merriweather who sat with “Chubby” by the 
bedside of the aged man while he told his story. 

“He’s got to talk,” Dr. Markham had said. “He has 
something on his mind and he won’t rest until it is all 
out. But I’m afraid it won’t do any good. It was as I 
feared, something has gone wrong inside, and he’s likely 
to get off his head any minute, and that will mean the 
end.” 

When the sufferer’s already dimming eyes fell upon 
Sherman the old wrinkled face became illumined as by 
a ray of heavenly light. 

“You ?” he said, and he stretched forth His gnarled, 
wrinkled hand. “I’m glad. I can tell you directly 
now. I was going to leave my message with your friend. 

“Where’s Major?” he asked suddenly, as Sherman 
bent over the hand without making a reply. 


28 o 


Sherman Hale 


“In the doctor’s hallway this very moment,” was the 
reply. 

In response to Sherman’s whistle the dog came bound- 
ing through the open door with short, sharp barks of 
uncontrollable delight. As he approached the bed, how- 
ever, he paused suddenly. For an instant he remained 
standing in the middle of the room, his big pathetic eyes 
fixed hungrily upon the man on the bed. Then, softly as 
the nurse herself would walk, he moved to the bedside of 
the sufferer, placed his forepaws upon the man’s pillow, 
and laying his head beside his master’s began to whine 
piteously. 

“It’s all right, Major, old boy,” the hermit said, 
stroking the dog’s shaggy side feebly. “It’s all right.” 

But the dog would not be comforted. 

“Shall I take him out?” “Chubby” asked. 

“ISTo, no. Let him stay,“ the hermit pleaded. “He’s 
been with me ten years now. Let him stay till the end.” 

So while the two young men listened with wet eyes 
to the old man’s story, Major remained by the bedside, 
and sometimes the words of the master were interrupted 
by the dog’s low, mournful whine. 

“My name is James Adams,” the old man began 
without preface. “When I was a boy my parents were 
both killed in a railroad accident. I was left in the care 
of an aged, distant relative, a man who was content to 
let me go my own way so long as he himself was not 
bothered. 

“Unfortunately, my parents left me some money, and 
my early days were spent in idle profligacy. r At twenty- 
one I was a reckless college boy, the leader of the gayest 


The Hermit’s Confession 281 

set. I did not study much. My days were spent in 
idleness and my nights in revelry. 

“It happened that one of the waitresses in our fra- 
ternity house was a young French woman of rare beauty. 
Some of the hoys were accustomed to treat her with 
shameful familiarity, and she, poor girl, knowing no 
better, would receive their promiscuous attentions with- 
out question. 

“But at the very first sight of the girl I became 
hopelessly infatuated. It used to make my blood boil 
when the other fellows would offer her a careless caress, 
though at first I dared not raise any objection for fear 
of their ridicule. 

“One night I induced Lizette to take a walk with me. 
When we were well away from the college I coaxed her 
to make it a ride, and after we were in the carriage I 
coaxed her still more, until she rode with me to the next 
village where we were married by a Justice of the 
Peace. And I meant to be true to her. As the Father 
of all pity is my judge, I meant to be true to her.” 

The voice of the old man lingered pathetically over 
the words, and the dog, looking into his eyes, put one 
paw affectionately against the bearded face and whined 
again. 

“It was very late when we returned to the college 
town. As we walked down the dark street where she 
lived with her mother, two of the fellows jumped out 
of the shadow of the fence. They had both been drink- 
ing and their voices were thick as they began to ridi- 
cule me. 

“I tried to hustle Lizette into the house out of the 


282 


Sherman Hale 


way of their foul tongues. But Jim Meadows, who 
seemed to be the more intoxicated of the two, stopped 
me with a loud oath. 

“ ‘Ho, you don’t/ ” he said, 'not until we’ve had our 
good-night kisses.’ 

“With that he reached out his arms to clasp the girl. 
It was more than I could stand. I raised my clenched 
fist and struck him a cruel blow full in the temple. 
The girl had sprung away from his attempted grasp and 
had escaped into the house. There was nothing to 
break his fall. With a sickening thud that rings in my 
ears even now — O God, O God ” 

The watching doctor sprang quickly to his side and 
gave him a sip from the cup which he held in his hand. 

“Would you better try to go on ?” he asked. “Haven’t 
you told enough?” 

“Ho, no, I must tell all, and leave this friend of 
mine my commission,” he urged. 

“Let’s see. Where was I ? Meadows fell, yes, that’s 
it. He fell upon the curbstone and it killed him.” 

The voice of the old man was quiet now, dangerously 
quiet, the doctor thought, but he let him continue. 

“Harry Comstock, completely sobered by the sight, 
was as frightened as I. We turned Meadows over and 
felt for his heart beat. But he was dead. Dead, I say. 
Do you hear me ? He was dead, and I had killed him.” 

The doctor laid his hand upon the wrist of the ex- 
cited patient and again advised him to discontinue his 
narrative. But with superhuman strength, the old man 
threw off the restraining hand and lifted himself upon 
his elbow. 


The Hermit’s Confession 283 

“I was frightened,” lie said, with wild, staring eyes, 
“and I ran away. In the city that very night I fell in 
with some roystering sailors and the next morning I 
sailed with them for India. It was two years before I 
came hack to America. Meanwhile Comstock had been 
sentenced for the murder of Meadows. It was man- 
slaughter, they said. He had hut a ten years’ sentence, 
but the week before my vessel reached port he killed 
himself in his prison cell.” 

The hermit sank hack wearily upon the pillow, moan- 
ing to himself, the dog whining by his side. 

“But Lizette?” Sherman asked, for he knew the tale 
could not he finished. “And my commission. Was it 
about her?” 

“Yes, Lizette,” he replied, opening his eyes. “It was 
some time before I could find her. People had not be- 
lieved the story of her marriage to me, and she was too 
ignorant to know how to prove it. She had tried to 
take care of the boy alone. But the world is cruel. 

“By and by a man named Barrington offered her a 
home, and she married him. He’s living still, a mis- 
erable, drunken brute, away from her. 

“I’ve helped her, though she doesn’t know it. But 
my money was all gone and I could not help her much. 
Six times a year I have been to her house in the night 
and put beneath her door all that I could spare her, 
and always on the door-step I have left such provisions 
as my daily toil could supply. 

“She sent the boy to school and to college and I heard 
he was going to be a minister. The other day I heard 
his name. Where did I hear it ? What was it he had 


Sherman Hale 


284 

done? It was something, I know, that reminded me 
of what I, his father, had done so many years ago. Do 
you know?” 

He peered with anxious eyes into the faces of his 
sympathetic listeners. 

“Do you know what my boy and hers had done ?” 

“He has done nothing so very bad,” “Chubby” re- 
assured him. “If I ? m not mistaken, he’s the man who 
was arrested for murder, but his supposed victim has 
turned up alive.” 

“Yes, that’s it, and I was going to save him. God 
was good to me, and was going to let me save a life, the 
life of my own son, in return for the life I had taken. 
He was going ” 

Suddenly the flickering light of intelligence went out 
from the eyes. The sufferer looked wildly at the faces 
of the men before him. 

“Who are you? Who are you?” he cried. “O God, 
he’s dead. He’s dead, I say. Didn’t you hear his head 
strike the edge of the curb? He’s dead. Look, how 
those eyes stare in the cold moonlight! He’s dead.” 

But when the doctor had again forced a sip of the 
beverage down his throat, after awhile the reason re- 
turned for another fleeting moment. 

“Lizette,” he murmured weakly, his eyes closed. 
“Lizette — and — Major ■ — you’ll — take — care — of — 
them ?” 

Sherman took the hand that was picking restlessly 
at the bedclothes, and bending low over the dying man’s 
face he said, “Yes, I’ll take care of both.” 

“And — James — Adams — Barrington,” He whispered 


The Hermit’s Confession 285 

still more feebly. “My — name — and — his, — will — 

he ” 

“Yes, yes,” Sherman hastened to reassure him. 
“He will be free.” 

“Praise — God — from — whom ” 

But before the first line of the old comforting hymn 
was finished the eyes became wild again. 

“You’d better go out,” the doctor advised the two 
men. “It won’t be a pretty sight.” 

Even as he spoke the sick man lifted himself to a 
sitting posture shouting wildly, “He’s dead, I say. 
Dead, dead!” A violent paroxysm shook his sturdy 
frame, and then — stillness. 

“It’s all over,” Dr. Markham said, with his finger 
upon the pulseless wrist. “Take the dog and go away.” 

Lifting the whining dog tenderly in his arms, Sher- 
man staggered out of the room, and “Chubby” Nichols, 
wiping his eyes with his coat sleeve, softly followed 
him. 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


THE BIGGEST ASS OF THE BUNCH 

Dobson, the man-servant of “Chubby” Hichols, 
watched the departure of his master with his strange 
guest from a protected window of “Chubby’s” bed- 
room. As soon as the cab was safely out of sight around 
the corner, he turned from the window and a shrewd 
smile sat with weird effect upon the habitual stoniness 
of his countenance. 

He glided noiselessly out of the room and sought his 
own little chamber in the rear of the flat. There he 
swiftly but silently changed his house coat for one 
suitable for street wear, and a moment later he Walked 
from the house, a spruce, dapper, immaculate man with 
the shrewd smile still carved upon his impassive, im- 
mobile face. 

When two hours later, or to be exact, at precisely 
fifteen minutes of ten, “Chubby” and Sherman re- 
turned, they found the excellent servant unobtrusively 
attending to his duties. The rooms were all in order, 
and the little breakfast table was in readiness awaiting 
the master’s command. 

“The coffee is just ready, sir,” Dobson assured him. 
“I thought,” he added meekly, “that you might need 
it at once. And the omelette and the steak will be done 
directly.” 


The Biggest Ass of the Bnuch 287 


“Chubby” smiled his approval and gave the man a 
dollar as he handed him his coat and hat. Dobson 
took the bill with a most humble and suitable expression 
of gratitude. He was the obsequious, perfect waiter at 
the table, anticipating the wants of the two men with 
the ease and facility born of long years of practice. Ho 
smile disturbed the stoniness of his face now. He was 
the servant again, noiseless and agile, but withal dis- 
creet, humble, and wooden. 

“Chubby” and Sherman were soberly silent during 
the meal. The experience of the morning had made its 
impression upon them both, and neither was in a mood 
for conversation. 

The breakfast eaten, the two men seated themselves 
comfortably before the glowing fire. 

“Cigar or cigarette?” “Chubby” asked, waving his 
hand hospitably to the tobacco tray upon the table. 

“Cigar, I think.” Sherman helped himself to a 
Havana. 

“And a paper?” “Chubby” offered him his choice 
of the morning dailies which had been placed by the 
faithful Dobson in a neat pile upon the desk. 

“Ho, no paper.” Sherman refused the offer with a 
gesture of displeasure. “Do you know, I think it will 
be some time before I get used to those things again! 
They have given me some jolts. You read. I’ll just 
sit here and think.” 

He lighted his cigar and surrendered himself to the 
luxury of the easy chair and the glowing fire. For a 
few moments no sound was heard in the room except the 
occasional rustle of the newspaper in “Chubby’s” 


288 


Sherman Hale 


hands, and the almost continual low whining of the dog 
in the corner. 

“Poor fellow,” Sherman muttered in ready sympathy. 
But he had too much to occupy his mind to give more 
than a passing interest to the grief of the faithful 
animal. 

“ ‘Chubby/ ” he said after awhile, “it’s no use. 
What we talked about last night won’t go. I can’t try 
to sneak off like a craven coward. I’ve got to go back 
and take my medicine.” 

“I didn’t advise you to do differently, did I ?” 
“Chubby” asked somewhat curtly. 

“No, you didn’t advise it. It was I who tried to talk 
you into allowing it. ‘Chubby,’ you are the most gen- 
erous man in the world. You wouldn’t advise me to 
go away, because — why because it would mean so much 
to you.” 

“Chubby” made a gesture of remonstrance. 

“No, don’t interrupt me. I understand, old fellow. 
And, ‘Chubby,’ I wish you all success with Myrtice. 
I’m out of the running anyway. But perhaps she can 
learn to forget me while I’m in prison just as well as 
though I were in Australia. Anyway she’ll have to try. 
I’ve just got to go back. In some way that old man’s 
death has made me see the thing more clearly. The 
other course would not be manly.” 

“Chubby” threw down his paper with unnecessary 
violence and walked to the window. 

“Sherman,” he began, with his back to his friend, 
“I think you are right. I wish I felt as sure as ‘Merry’ 
does that he can get you out of this with a whole skin, 


The Biggest Ass of the Bunch 289 


but I’m afraid he’s over credulous. I honestly don’t 
dare to give you much hope, but I tell you this, old 
chap, if you go back to that blamed prison we shall not 
rest until we have done all we can to 

“Jove, who’s that? Sherman, get into my bedroom 
quick. Two officers are coming up the stairs.” 

The cigar fell from Sherman Hale’s lips to the car- 
pet. His face blanched. His hands fell limply to his 
side. He tried to rise, but his body refused to do his 
bidding. 

“Ho,” he whispered huskily between his set teeth, “I 
can’t do it.” With a desperate effort he threw back his 
shoulders and added, “I won’t do it.” 

He was wiping the cold perspiration from his fore- 
head when the door opened and Dobson, in his most 
obsequious tones, announced, 

“Two gentlemen of the Police, sir.” 

“Well!” “Chubby” looked at the officers defiantly. 
“ What do you want here ?” 

“This man,” one of them replied as they both stepped 
forward to Sherman’s chair. 

“But you sha’n’t have him,” “Chubby” declared. 
“He’s my guest and you don’t take him here. Get out 
or, by Jove, I’ll put you out.” 

The officers smiled superciliously as they touched 
Sherman on the shoulder. 

“He may be your guest now,” one of them said, “hut 
he is more properly the guest of the Commonwealth. 
Come, young man. There are some friends of yours 
out at Concord who will Be glad to see you.” 

“D — n you!” “Chubby” expostulated. 


290 


Sherman Hale 


But Sherman had risen from his chair, a new resolu- 
tion shining in his face. It was the old stalwart Sher- 
man again, the Sherman who had so often fearlessly 
faced the Yale squad of football players ; but it was the 
old Sherman made into a man by the strengthening ex- 
periences of the past months. 

"It’s all right, ‘Chubby,’ ” he said with a smile. 
“These gentlemen are correct. I belong to the Common- 
wealth. Good-bye, old man. Take care of Major for 
me. Bind Lizette, if you can. And — be good to 
Myrtice.” 

In a moment more he was gone. 

“Chubby” sat down in his easy chair and groaned 
aloud. In a moment, however, he jumped up and 
rang his call bell angrily. 

“Dobson,” he demanded, as the servant promptly 
appeared, “was anyone here while we were gone?” 

“No, sir.” 

“Did you ” 

A peremptory ring of the door bell interrupted him. 

“Let him up,” “Chubby” said testily. “ But when 
he’s gone I’ve something more to say to you.” 

“Well!” Mr. Merriweather exclaimed impatiently as 
he rushed into the room. “Why didn’t you come? 
I’ve been waiting for you for half an hour.” 

“Jove,” said “Chubby” blankly, sinking into a chair, 
“I forgot all about you.” 

“That’s a nice complimentary way to treat your 
friends, isn’t it ? Well, let it go. Get into your duds 
and come along.” 

“Where?” 


The Biggest Ass of the Bunch 291 


“To the old hermit, of course. Have you forgotten 
that we were going to see him at ten o’clock ?” 

“He’s dead,” “Chubby” said abruptly, without rising. 

“Dead! How? Why?” 

“I don’t know why. Who does ? But I know how, 
and it was awful.” 

“You were there?” 

“Yes, a telephone from Markham at the ungodly 
hour of seven-fifteen.” 

“So,” mused the detective after “Chubby” had 
briefly related the incident of the morning. “He’s 
through, is he ? And we didn’t get his deposition after 
all. But it will make no difference, I fancy, except 
that now we must use the direct testimony of Hale him- 
self. By the way, where is Hale? Still asleep?” 

“Ho.” 

“Then where is he?” 

“Gone.” 

“Gone? You don’t ntfean that ” 

“Yes, that’s it. Officers nabbed him right here not 
fifteen minutes ago.” 

“But how did they know he was here ?” 

“Blamed if I know.” 

“ ‘Chubby,’ I’ll bet a box of Havanas you’ve been in- 
discreet. Think now. What have you been saying 
before that inscrutable servant of yours ?” 

“The devil!” muttered “Chubby” in sudden recol- 
lection. 

“Well, out with it. What have you done ?” 

“I was so excited over Markham’s telephone this 
morning that I called Hale by his name.” 


292 


Sherman Hale 


“When Dobson was present, I suppose?” 

“Yes, I suppose so. But, by Jove, I’ll make an end 
to that fellow if he’s been blabbing.” 

He reached out his hand to touch the bell, but Merri- 
weather restrained him. 

“What’s the use of losing a good servant just because 
you’ve been a jackass?” he remonstrated. “Save your 
anger to spend upon yourself.” 

“Chubby” sank dejectedly into the very depths of his 
chair and made no reply. He did not look up as the 
detective made his brief preparation for departure. 

“ ‘Chubby’,” Mr. Merri weather said, as he stood for 
a moment in the doorway, looking at the forlorn figure 
before the fire, “I don’t mind telling you that I consider 
you the biggest ass of the bunch. Yes,” he continued 
in ruminative fashion, “I should say the most asinine 
jackass in all God’s kingdom.” 

“But what am I to do ?” “Chubby” demanded, as the 
door was about to close. “Tell me what to do.” 

“Feed the dog,” his departing caller flung out scorn- 
fully from the other side of the door. “That’s all you 
are good for.” 

For fully an hour after Merriweather’s departure 
“ Chubby” remained immovable in his easy chair. Then 
he put on his coat and hat and strode morosely to the 
Club. 

It was while he was at dinner that night, eating all 
alone as became his mood, that the waiter handed him 
a dainty note. 

“Can’t you come to see me this evening?” the note 
ran. “I have seen the evening papers and am much 


The Biggest Ass of the Bunch 293 


troubled. Please come if you can. Your friend, Myr- 
tice Meredith.” 

The evening papers! Of course. What a dolt he 
had been! He ordered a paper to be brought to him 
and there, as he expected, on the first page he found 
a garbled account of the reappearance and rearrest of 
Sherman Hale. 


CHAPTER XXXIV 


ONCE MORE A MAN 

When Sherman Hale stood erect in the rooms of 
“ Chubby” Hichols and told the officers that he was 
ready, there was in his voice a new ring which amazed 
his friend. Sherman did not stop then to analyze his 
feelings, but afterwards as he looked back he knew that 
at that moment he was supremely happy. Eor the first 
time since his arrest and conviction he felt within him- 
self the emotion of joy and the satisfaction of strength. 

Perhaps the feeling was due in part to the sudden 
removal of the dread of recapture. Possibly it came 
in some measure just from the departure of the grim 
specter of fear which had been his inseparable com- 
panion for months, which had not altogether left his 
side, he now realized, even in those beclouded days with 
the peaceful hermit at Hahant. 

But more than the surcease of dread and fear was 
expressed in the ringing tone of his exultation. Some- 
thing had gone from him which brought him relief; 
but something else had come to him which brought him 
power. The thing which had come to him was the re- 
turn of manhood. He stood erect and his voice rang 
with triumph because he felt himself once more a man. 

The loss of moral courage brings to a strong man the 
very acme of suffering. Such an one may endure the 


Once More a Man 


295 

loss of property or of position with stoical fortitude ; he 
may suffer the loneliness of bereavement without com- 
plaint; the ravages of disease and the pain of physical 
torture he may hear most bravely. But when depriva- 
tion, bereavement, disease, or any other of the count- 
less experiences of human suffering has so undermined 
his nervous system as to cause him to face the world 
with shifty, unsteady eyes, and to enter upon its work 
with faltering, cringing step, then the misery of the 
strong man is complete. He then remembers the 
strength and the courage that he once possessed, but he 
cannot recall them. 

This grievous experience had been Sherman Hale’s. 
Hp to the moment when the officers came to re-arrest 
him the process of the restoration of his manhood had 
been so slow as completely to escape his observation. 
The healthy outdoor exercise and the bracing sea air 
had had their inevitable healing effect upon his nerve- 
racked body. And more beneficent still had been the 
influence of the man of peace upon his harassed soul. 
But all the while Sherman had been unconscious of his 
growing strength and courage. How, suddenly, under 
the stimulus of the removal of his ignoble fear, the 
fruition of the healing agencies of the past month burst 
upon him in full consciousness. He knew himself to 
be a man again, a stronger man than he had ever been 
before, a man who could face trial without flinching, 
and who could accept the course of rectitude and honor 
without fear. 

In charge of the officers he walked down stairs with 
erect carriage and firm, elastic step. If, when he step- 


Sherman Hale 


296 

ped out into the clear, crisp, wintry day he remem- 
bered that he might be taking his last fill of pure fresh 
air for many days to come, the thought caused him no 
bitter rebellion. What was before him he knew could 
be borne, and he felt himself strong enough to bear it. 

During the brief ride in the cab to the police station, 
he chatted with the officers most affably. 

“ Blame me, but he’s a deep one,” one of the officials 
muttered before they had reached their destination. 
“He don’t seem to care a cuss now. But he was scared 
stiff when we nabbed him.” 

Yet Sherman Hale did care. He cared more than 
he would have admitted even to himself. There was 
certainly no joy in the thought of going back to the 
prison with its threatening solitary cell and its glaring 
suit of degradation. But the exultation in his renewed 
manhood overshadowed the horror of the anticipated 
trials of the future. 

He was required to wait at the police station until 
word of his re-arrest could be telephoned to Concord 
and an officer of the Reformatory could be sent for 
him. 

Part of the tedious waiting he passed in the attempt 
to write a letter to Myrtice. But the letter was only 
half completed when the inconsistency of the act ap- 
pealed to him so strongly that he tore it into fragments 
and threw them away. Why should he write to her 
whom he had already relinquished to his friend ? Since 
he could never be anything to her but a troubled mem- 
ory, why should he seek to prolong that memory by a 
single communication? Better not to write. Better 


Once More a Man 


297 

leave her to forget soon, that the sooner she might find 
true happiness. 

The surrender which his reason demanded and his 
conscience approved was not easy to make. He was 
beginning to learn early that true manhood has its sor- 
rows as well as its joys, its burden of self-denial with its 
power of self-possession. But he did not shrink from 
the lesson. He did not once falter in his determination 
to sacrifice self for what he considered to be for the best 
good of the one whom he loved. 

The newly acquired erectness of carriage and firmness 
of step marked his demeanor throughout the short but 
trying journey to the Reformatory. By a fateful chain 
of untoward circumstances, the telephone message from 
the Boston police found the Deputy Superintendent 
away, and the officer detailed to bring Sherman back 
was no other than the offensive, brutal Officer Marden. 

That officer eyed his man suspiciously as he put the 
manacles upon his wrist with unnecessary roughness. 

“So you’ve run up against it at last, have you?” he 
sneered. “Had your little fun and now you’ve got to 
pay the piper, eh ?” 

Sherman looked at the burly officer with something 
of the old disdain gathering in his eyes, but the new 
manhood drove away his churlishness. He was able to 
smile broadly and to reply quite cheerfully. 

“Yes, it’s to pay the piper now, and to tell the truth, 
I don’t know as what I’ve had is worth the price.” 

“Hot all pleasant, eh ?” 

“Ho, not all.” Sherman smiled grimly at the recol- 
lection. 


Sherman Hale 


298 

“ Ought to have thought of that before you skipped,” 
the officer reminded him. “ Great idea of yours,” he 
continued, as Sherman made no reply, “to make out 
that you were dead. But why in time after you were 
once safely dead didn’t you stay dead ?” 

Sherman shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t believe you 
would understand,” he said, “if I should try to explain. 
So let’s talk about something else. How are all the 
boys ?” 

“Oh, so — so. Up to mischief as usual, raising Cain 
every time they get a chance.” 

“How is Brown getting along? Humber 98 ? 

Has he been released yet?” 

“He’s dead.” 

“Dead ? How ? He didn’t die in that hell, did he ?” 

“That’s what. Got into trouble again monkeying 
with the ‘weed.’ Like all the rest of those kids, didn’t 
know enough to keep out of mischief.” 

“And he had another does of the ‘sick room/ I sup- 
pose ?” 

“Yes, of course, and deserved it, too. After that he 
had a fever and that finished him.” 

“Good God ! Think of a boy like that dying in that 
hole.” 

Officer Marden shrugged his shoulders with what was 
meant for a gesture of indifference and turned his face 
to the car window. The remainder of the ride was 
passed in silence. 

A returned prisoner who has successfully escaped 
and been at large for months is always an object of 
great interest at the Reformatory. The officers who hap- 


Once More a Man 


299 


pened to be in the Guard Room gathered around 
Sherman curiously. They asked him questions; some 
of them indulged in coarse jokes at his expense; but 
Sherman replied to the questions courteously, and he 
met the jokes with calm indifference. 

“Kind of taken the gimp out of you, ain’t it?” one 
of the officers remarked at length. “You don’t seem 
quite so high-stepping as you did once.” 

“Perhaps not,” Sherman admitted with a smile that 
might mean anything. 

On the way to the ‘sick room,’ which is always the 
first punishment meted out for escape, Sherman met 
the prisoners returning to their afternoon work from 
the dining-room. Some of them were new men who did 
not know him, but the older prisoners gave him glances 
of recognition. On the faces of some there were ex- 
pressions of open admiration, for the daring escape 
had made him the prisoners’ hero. But the faces of 
others of the prisoners suggested pity for his fool- 
hardiness. Of course, no one was allowed to speak to 
him, and down through the marching lines of curious 
men he passed in charge of the officer in perfect silence. 

At the entrance to the familiar dark cell he paused 
for a moment and drew back with involuntary repug- 
nance. The cost of the pathway of honor was beginning 
to weigh upon him. The remembered horrors of those 
long days of darkness and of hunger ! Could he endure 
them again? 

But the hesitation was only momentary. Squaring 
his shoulders bravely he stepped firmly into the cell, 
and the heavy iron door clanged noisily behind him. 


300 


Sherman Hale 


He had been in the darkness but two or three hours 
and the intense blackness of the night had not yet 
settled upon him, when the sound of approaching foot- 
steps on the stone flagging caused him to sit up on his 
bed in wonder. Was it possible that they were going 
to be humane enough to give him a slice of bread so 
soon ? He had not dared to hope for that until noon of 
the following day. 

But it was not bread. It was a peremptory summons. 
The heavy door was unlocked and flung wide open. 

“The ‘Super’ wants to see you in the office,” a waiting 
officer said laconically. 

Without a word the mystified prisoner rose and fol- 
lowed the officer out into the dazzling glare of the 
dimly lighted corridor. 


CHAPTER XXXV 


A LUCKY DAY 

When Mr. Merriweather succinctly characterized 
“Chubby” Hichols as “the biggest ass in the bunch,” 
he flung himself in disgust from the latter’s rooms 
and returning to his own apartments called up Mr. 
William Buffington on the telephone. 

“Hello, Billy, that you?” 

“ J ust up, you lazy bones ? You ought to be ashamed. 
You remember what you promised me yesterday? 

“At dinner, you stupid, when ‘Chubby’ had stepped 
out for a minute.” 

“Oh, you do remember. Well, your memory is a very 
remarkable one. I want you to do it to-day.” 

“Bosh! Hang the red tape. I say it’s got to be 
done to-day.” 

“You’ll try, you namby-pamby? I don’t want you 
to try , I want you to do it. . 

“That’s some like it. I knew you could if you would. 
What time shall I come ?” 

“All right. I’ll be there promptly at the minute. 
Good-bye.” 

With a smile of assurance upon his thin lips Mr. 
Merriweather hung up the receiver, and five minutes 
later he was in a cab being driven rapidly to the 
Charlestown jail. 


3 02 


Sherman Hale 


In the cell of Mr. J. Adams Barrington he greeted 
the prisoner cheerily, but received only a surly reply. 
Nothing daunted, he seated himself upon the hard 
wooden chair and looked searchingly at the man sitting 
on the edge of the cot bed. 

“Look here, you,” he said, looking at his watch. 
“I’ve got just fifteen minutes to talk with you — hardly 
that, in fact, and I want you to talk fast. I can get you 
out of this jail a free man inside of twenty-four hours 
if you are able to answer all my questions satis- 
factorily.” 

“You don’t mean that? You don’t mean that?” the 
prisoner exclaimed, springing to his feet and gripping 
the shoulders of his visitor with both trembling hands. 
“You don’t mean that you can get me free?” 

“Ugh, get away.” Merriweather shook him off im- 
patiently. “Don’t you see you are wrinkling my coat ?” 
he exclaimed in disgust. “Sit down, sit down and be 
calm. I don’t suppose I ought to say that I can get you 
free. What I mean is that circumstances will set you 
free. Sherman Hale has turned up alive.” 

“Good God.” The words were a prayer of thanks- 
giving. The relief had come so suddenly, however, that 
the shock was almost more than the prisoner could 
bear. He fell upon the bed face downward and his 
body shook with the sobs of joy which he could not 
restrain. 

“Come now, brace up,” said Merriweather not un- 
kindly. “I’m afraid I blurted that out rather abruptly. 
But it was your right to know at once. We have found 
Sherman Hale, and we know that your story about 


303 


A Lucky Day 

what you did with him is substantially true. So you 
are free from the charge of murder. But there’s one 
or two little things to be cleared up before you can get 
out of here absolutely a free man. It may be you will 
have to be re-arrested on another charge.” 

“What?” Barrington asked turning to Merriweather 
eyes bulging with new fright, the tears of his recent 
emotion falling unheeded down his pale face. 

“Forgery,” was the prompt reply. “I want to know 
from you something about that check for five hundred 
dollars which Hale was accused of forging.” 

“But I don’t know anything about it.” 

“Hot a thing?” sternly. “Think. Didn’t you ever 
see that check?” 

“Yes,” the man admitted reluctantly. 

“I thought so. You found it on Professor Camwell’s 
desk when you sat down to work that morning?” 

“Yes,” very faintly. 

“But you didn’t sign the name to it ?” 

“Ho.” 

“Ah!” Merriweather felt for a cigar and put it 
unlighted between his teeth. “Well, what did you do 
with it?” he continued, blowing imaginary rings of 
smoke to the ceiling, while he watched the man before 
him through half-closed eyes. 

“I took it up stairs and put it beneath Mr. Hale’s 
door,” came the faltering reply. 

“Why?” insistently. 

“Because I saw that it was made out to his order, 
and I thought he had forgotten to take it with him 
the night before.” 


304 


Sherman Hale 


“That’s pretty weak. Why didn’t you wait for him 
to claim it?” 

“I preferred to carry it upstairs myself.” The 
prisoner’s eyes were downcast. 

“You thought you might catch a glimpse of Miss 
Meredith, it may he.” The half -closed eyes of the 
detective were watching intently. 

“Yes,” came the faltering reply. 

“Perhaps you had something for her, too?” insinu- 
ated his tormentor. “A note or a ” 

“Only a little bit of poetry,” the man stammered 
miserably, “but I didn’t leave it at her door.” 

“No. You didn’t dare.” 

The man made no reply. 

“And afterwards,” Mr. Merriweather continued, 
“when Hale was accused of forging the signature, why 
didn’t you own up that you had seen the check and that 
you carried it upstairs to him ?” 

“I was afraid.” 

“No, you weren’t afraid either.” The eyes cf the 
detective were wide open now, and they were scintillat- 
ing sparks of fire that seemed to burn into the very soul 
of the miserable man before him. “You weren’t 
afraid. What was there to be afraid of? But you 
wanted to get Hale into trouble. You kept silent, 
knowing that your silence would help to send an inno- 
cent man to prison. You wanted him to go to prison. 
You wanted to be rid of him. You wanted to steal his 
sweetheart for yourself. 

“Do you know, sir, that there aren’t a dozen men in 
this country who would believe the story you have just 


A Lucky Day 


305 


told me when they understand that you had a motive for 
forging that check ? Bah ! Think up something 
stronger. You are going to be free from the charge of 
murder, hut you are a villain, a mean, stinking low 
down villain. The place reeks with your presence.” 

Having thus delivered himself of his inmost feelings, 
Mr. Merriweather left Barrington cringing upon his 
bed and hurried from the cell. 

His cab was waiting for him. He ordered the driver 
to take him to the offices of a well-known Clipping 
Bureau. 

“I want all the newspaper reports of the sudden and 
mysterious disappearance of men occurring in the 
month of January,” he announced briefly, “ and I want 
them right off — by to-night, anyway.” 

"It’s rather a large order for so short a time,” the 
manager demurred, “but we’ll do our best. We’ll send 
what we can find to your address this evening. 

“Wait,” the manager continued, as the detective 
turned to leave the office. “There’s something in this 
morning’s Globe that may be of interest to you.” 

Merriweather took the paper and read the item indi- 
cated. “By Jove, this may be luck,” he murmured, as 
he crushed the paper into his pocket. 

“To East Boston to the dock of the Cunarder,” he 
instructed his driver, as a minute later he climbed into 
the waiting cab. 

It was quarter past eleven when he had found the 
immigration officer at the dock. 

“I can’t say that I can find him,” the officer said in 
reply to the detective’s inquiry. “But I think likely he 


Sherman Hale 


306 

is still here in this hunch. ” He waved his hand toward 
the motley assembly of immigrants huddled on the 
wharf. “ Shall I look now ?” 

“Ho, I can’t wait. I have an important engagement 
at noon. 

“Find him and send him up to my rooms. Here’s 
my card. And make him wait until I get back. My 
man is a Swede and they can parlez vous or whatever 
they call it to their hearts’ content. It’s very good of 
you to take this trouble.” 

“Ho, it’s our business. We have to look after these 
fellows pretty carefully.” 

Precisely on the stroke of twelve Mr. Merriweather 
was at the State House. He found Mr. Buffington in 
the outer offices of the Executive Chamber, waiting for 
him. At half after twelve the two men together entered 
the private office of the Governor. When they emerged 
a full hour later Mr. Merriweather’s face wore a smile 
of supreme content. 

“Let’s go and lunch together,” Mr. Buffington sug- 
gested as they stepped out into the corridor. 

“Sorry, old man, but I can’t stop,” Merriweather 
replied, consulting his watch. “I’ve just fifteen minutes 
to get to the Horth Station and catch my train.” 

At three o’clock the detective was in the office of the 
Superintendent of the State Reformatory at Concord. 
Half an hour later he was shaking hands with Sherman 
Hale, who, fresh from the gloom of the solitary cell, 
peered at him with blinking, wondering eyes. 

“It’s a lucky day, Mr. Hale,” the detective informed 
him. “I might almost dare to call it providential.” 


CHAPTER XXXVI 


“CHUBBY’s” TBYING OBDEAL 

Miss Meredith was more than troubled. She was 
excited almost to the verge of nervous breakdown. 

After she had herself delivered “ Chubby’s” note to a 
messenger hoy she went to her room and tried to calm 
herself with a book. Every passing footstep, however, 
distracted her attention, and scores of times during the 
dragging hours she went to her window thinking, 
“ There he is at last.” Twice the approaching footsteps 
reminded her of Sherman’s firm tread, and then with 
white face and hands clasped tightly across her breast, 
she waited breathlessly for his strong touch upon the 
door bell. But the footsteps always passed on, and the 
bell, did not ring. 

“It’s foolish, I know,” she tried to reassure herself. 
“Of course, if he’s been arrested again they will carry 
him right back to that horrid prison.” Then, rocking 
her body back and forth in her chair, the forgotten novel 
lying where it had fallen upon the floor, she exclaimed 
for the hundredth time, “Oh, I wish Mr. Hichols would 
come, or Mr. Merriweather, or somebody who could tell 
me if there isn’t something I can do.” 

When Mr. Hichols did come at last, cruelly late, she 
met him at the hall door. Her cheeks were flushed, her 
eyes unduly brilliant, and he noticed that the hand she 
gave him in greeting was hot and dry. 


Sherman Hale 


308 

Seeing her thus, his own dread of the ordeal before 
him was swept away by the overflow of a great and 
tender pity for her. 

“My poor girl,” he murmured, as he led her into the 
drawing-room, “my poor girl.” 

He insisted that she should lie down on the couch 
and he arranged the cushions for her himself with a 
deftness that would have astonished both of them had 
they not been too preoccupied to notice the unwonted 
delicacy of his touch. 

“How, tell me quick,” she pleaded, her brilliant eyes 
on his, her fingers closing and opening with nervous 
rapidity. “Tell me about it. Where has he been all 
this time? How did he happen to get taken again? 
And how, oh, how did we make such an awful mistake ?” 

“The last question first,” “Chubby” said gravely, 
meeting her eyes steadily. “It was I who made the 
awful mistake. You are very kind to say ‘we’ but it 
was only I, one of my usual blunders. It didn’t look 
just as Sherman used to look, of course, but it looked 
as I fancied he might look after ” 

“Yes, after his terrible sufferings,” she completed as 
“Chubby” hesitated. “I know it must have been awful. 
I’m sure your mistake was most natural, Mr. Hichols.” 

“Thank you,” he said, bowing his head. “But I 
shall never forgive myself. It seems to me unpardon- 
able, and think of the terrible consequences to poor 
Barrington by my awful blunder.” 

It was her turn to become comforter now. “You 
must not so accuse yourself,” she said. “I’m sure it 
was not your fault.” 


“Chubby’s” Trying Ordeal 309 


He turned away his head quickly. When her eyes 
wore the troubled, anxious expression he could look at 
them quite steadily, eager only to drive the trouble away. 
But when the same eyes were filled with sympathy for 
him he could by no means trust himself to look into 
their depths. He broke the awkward silence by be- 
ginning to tell her in rapid, broken phrases of the occur- 
rences of the past two days. The hectic flush upon her 
cheeks deepened and her eyes became more brilliant 
still as she listened, but she seldom interrupted him 
with more than an exclamation of surprise. 

When he came at last to speak with unconscious 
pathos of the death of the old hermit she covered her 
face with her hands, and to his dismay he saw the tears 
trickling between her fingers. 

“ Don’t, don’t,” he pleaded in great agitation. “Don’t 
feel that way. Can’t you see that that will be more 
than I can stand?” 

He was standing before her, his face working with 
the emotion he could not control. She lowered her 
hands and with a pathetic smile sought to reassure him. 

“It’s foolish, isn’t it? I think I won’t do it again. 
But to think that the good old man is dead before I had 
a chance to thank him for all his kindness to Sherman.” 

At the mention of Sherman’s name “Chubby” turned 
away from her almost rudely. In a minute, however, he 
was back in the chair by her side, with his own emotions 
well under control. 

“You aren’t through,” she reminded him. “How did 
the police officers find him so quickly?” 

“That was my fault, too,” he declared. And without 


4 


3io 


Sherman Hale 


any attempt to palliate his carelessness he confessed the 
whole miserable story of his inadvertent remarks before 
his servant Dobson. 

“But then he was going to give himself up anyway,” 
he concluded, an unconscious pride in his friend ringing 
in his voice. “Not ten minutes before the officers came 
he said that he had decided that it would be base and 
unmanly to try to get away.” 

“My noble Sherman!” she murmured involuntarily; 
and then, blushing painfully, she held out her hand to 
“Chubby” with a frank, “Forgive me, my friend. I 
did not think what I was saying.” 

“There is nothing to forgive,” he replied huskily as 
he bent over her hand. “Believe me, I am glad, that — 
that you think so,” he ended weakly and somewhat 
ambiguously. 

The silence again became most awkward. 

“Does the Professor know?” he inquired at last. 

“No, I haven’t dared to tell him, and you know he 
hardly ever reads a newspaper, unless his attention is 
called to it by some one else. He is so absorbed in his 
studies.” 

“Is he any better lately?” 

“Not much,” with a sad shake of her head. “Do 
you know, I’m afraid if any great shock should come to 
him suddenly it would kill him. That is why I am 
really afraid to tell him about Sherman.” 

“But he’ll have to know some time.” 

“Yes, of course, some time,” she admitted. “Per- 
haps we needn’t tell him, though, until we have proven 
Sherman innocent. And that’s another thing that 


“Chubby’s 55 Trying Ordeal 311 


troubles me,” she hastened to add. “I’m not sure that 
Uncle Camwell could stand the shock of discovering 
that he had been unjust to Sherman. You know he 
has very rigid ideas of justice. He seems hard and 
unforgiving when he tries only to be just, and it would 
hurt him terribly to know that he had ever been unjust, 
particularly to his nephew.” 

“I understand, but still I’m afraid he’ll have to know 
some time, though if we should fail ” 

“You don’t mean fail to prove Sherman’s innocence ?” 
she protested. 

“Yes. Old ' Merry’ seems sure of it, but, — well, he’s 
awful slow about it anyway.” 

“Oh, don’t say that you doubt his success,” she 
begged. “Of course, of late Mr. Merriweather hasn’t 
done anything about it because — why, he thought there 
was no need, but now ” 

She was interrupted by the butler who deprecatingly 
remarked that some one on the telephone was asking 
for Mr. Hichols. “Chubby” excused himself and went 
to the booth in the hall. 

“Is that you ' Chubby’ ?” came over the wire. 
“Thank the Lord, I’ve found you at last. I’ve been 
calling your house and the Club. What are you doing 
there ?” 

“Listening to what you are going to tell me,” 
“Chubby” replied drily. 

“A— h, you’re getting bright again, 'Chubby,’ re- 
markably brilliant for you.” 

“And you, my dear 'Merry,’ if I may be allowed to 
say it, seem quite as jovial as your name,” returned 


312 


Sherman Hale 


“Chubby” somewhat exasperated. “Considering all the 
incidents of the day I should think you were a trifle 
too merry.” 

“Ha, ha, ‘Chubby/ you’re getting on, you are, on 
my word. You’ll be ” 

“Well, what do you want?” “Chubby” interrupted. 

“I want to know if I may come to call on Miss 
Meredith. I want to see you, and what I have to tell 
you may interest her as well. May I come ?” 

“I don’t know anything to hinder you,” was the 
surly reply. 

“Thanks awfully. You are very kind and cordial.” 

His friend’s gay laughter coming over the wire rang 
most discordantly in “Chubby’s” ears as he returned to 
the drawing-room. 


CHAPTER XXXVII 


A NIGHT VIGIL 

“Ah, here we are,” Mr. Merriweather exclaimed as 
he entered the drawing room, rubbing his hands to- 
gether quite gleefully. “Miss Meredith, let me con- 
gratulate you. The newspaper accounts are garbled as 
usual, sadly garbled, but I suppose ‘Chubby’ has given 
you the true narrative, eh, ‘Chubby’?” 

“Mr. Xichols has been very kind,” Myrtice said 
somewhat stiffly, as she touched the detective’s hand. 
To her as to “Chubby,” the exuberant spirits of the 
little man seemed most untimely. 

“He’s always kind,” declared Merriweather, slap- 
ping his friend jovially upon the back. “The kindest 
boy in all the world, and the biggest ” 

“Jackass in all the bunch,” concluded “Chubby” 
ruefully. 

“I was going to say, the biggest hearted friend a 
fellow ever had,” Mr. Merriweather corrected, laying 
his hand fondly upon the young man’s broad shoulder. 

“Oh, chuck it,” remonstrated “Chubby.” “And 
please stop being quite so gay,” he added when Mr. 
Merriweather began to laugh at “Chubby’s” discom- 
fiture. “If you’ve got something to tell me that’s of 
interest to Miss Meredith as well, out with it and have 
it over.” 


Sherman Hale 


3H 

“My dear sir, yon are right as usual. Business first 
and pleasure afterwards. Well, I have a photograph I 
want to show you. What do you think of that?” 

He took from his pocket a faded tin-type and handed 
it to “Chubby,” watching his face meanwhile with the 
keenest interest. “Chubby” took the portrait nearer to 
the light. 

“I don’t make anything of it,” he began doubtfully. 
Then suddenly the puzzled expression of his face 
changed to one of amazement and horror. He returned 
the photograph without a word. 

“I thought I could not he mistaken,” Merri weather 
remarked as he put the tin-type again in his pocket. 

“But where did you get it?” “Chubby” demanded. 

“A Swedish immigrant loaned it to me to-day. The 
man came in on the Ivernia yesterday. That is a 
photograph of his brother, who mysteriously dropped out 
of sight in January. Your mistake was most natural, 
‘Chubby.’ The features of the two men are very nearly 
the same. If Sherman Hale weighed fifty pounds less, 
the resemblance would be quite striking. And if we 
could imagine your friend to have acquired in some way* 
a certain expression of dogged despair, the likeness 
would be well-nigh perfect. I don’t blame you at all, 
‘Chubby.’ ” 

“And it is the picture of the man who ” Myrtice 

asked, rising from her chair in her interest. 

“Yes, Miss Meredith,” the detective hastened to re- 
ply. “It is unquestionably the man who took his own 
life on the night when Barrington led your friend down 
to the wharf.” 


A Night Vigil 315 

“Oh, I’m so glad we know who it was,” she exclaimed. 
“But this poor brother of his ?” 

“I fancy we shall not let him starve,” Merriweather 
remarked. “Possibly ‘Chubby’ here will feel like doing 
something for the man. Indeed, he may find the Swede 
a good servant, if at any time he should care to dispense 
with the services of his excellent Dobson.” (He gave 
his friend a surreptitious wink.) “My own man is a 
Swede and he does very nicely.” 

“How,” he continued, after he saw that neither 
“Chubby” nor Myrtice was inclined to speak, “may I 
ask, Miss Meredith, if ‘Chubby’ has acquainted you with 
our desire for to-night?” 

“I — I — why, I thought it was all off, now Sherman 
was nabbed again,” stammered “Chubby.” 

“Indeed, it is not off. It’s all on. I see my assistant 
has not done his duty, so I must proffer my own request. 
I want to know, Miss Meredith, if it will be convenient 
for Mr. Nichols and myself to remain in your house, 
perhaps during all the night? Yes, I know it is a 
peculiar request,” he continued as he saw her look of 
surprise, “but it’s necessary. I need to make one more 
experiment before I can quite complete the chain of 
evidence that will free your friend from all suspicion of 
forgery. If we are fortunate, the missing link will be 
furnished to-night. It is possible, however, that we 
may have to come again. But it’s been a lucky day so 
far — perhaps the luck will continue.” 

“Why, of course,” she said wonderingly, “if it will 
help you. I will tell the servants to prepare your 
v 


rooms. 


Sherman Hale 


316 

“ Excuse me, but we don’t want any rooms. We are 
going to sit up right here in your drawing-room, if you 
don’t mind. That room across the hall is, I take it, the 
Professor’s study, and if the curtains were opened a 
little hit one could see your guardian’s desk, perhaps. 
Ah, yes,” as he rose and pulled back the portiere. “We 
want to stay right here, and you, Miss Meredith, may 
retire. No, please don’t remonstrate. You need your 
rest.” 

“Will you call me if you find out anything that I 
should want to know ?” she asked. 

“Yes,” he agreed readily, smiling at her reassur- 
ingly. “ ‘Chubby,’ himself, shall go up and tap on your 
door, for I fancy the servants will all be in bed. 

“Now, Miss Meredith, I notice that it is after ten 
o’clock. Your guardian, I infer from the darkened 
study, has already retired, and if you please, we will 
bid you good-night.” 

She smiled a little at the ceremonious manner with 
which the little man bowed her out of her own drawing- 
room, but she felt as though she had no alternative but 
to submit to his high-handed dismissal. 

Hardly had they heard the door of her room close 
before Merriweather took the puzzled “Chubby” into 
the study. “There’s only one thing I want to do,” he 
explained. “I am going to make a simple substitution. 
You will note that the old man is accustomed to write 
with this pen which he dips as occasion requires into 
that beautiful bronze ink-well. He ally, the old gentle- 
man is quite old-fashioned, isn’t he ? Quite out of date, 
in fact. I think he ought to use the more modern 


A Night Vigil 


3*7 


contrivance of a fountain pen. It would save him lots 
of time if he did not have to dip his pen in the ink so 
often. 

“Now here,” he continued, while “Chubby” watched 
him curiously, “I take from my pocket a Waterman pen 
in most excellent condition. If I have not been wrong 
in my inferences, this pen is the same number as that 
with which our learned friend is accustomed to write 
his Sanskrit. 

“Yes, see,” as he compared the two critically, “ex- 
actly the same. Now I will appropriate his pen for 
awhile and leave my Waterman in its place. There. 
Now, if you please, we’ll go back to the drawing-room. 
Leave the study door wide open, with the portiere of 
the drawing-room drawn back a little bit. Now move 
your chair close to mine, ‘Chubby,’ and you will see that 
we have an unobstructed view of the desk and of the 
chair before it. Now we will turn out the study light. 
We’ll leave the hall light, I think, as it is, for doubtless 
it is the custom of the house to leave it burning, and 
here in the drawing-room we will allow ourselves only 
the faint light of a single incandescent — this one on the 
table near our chairs — I can turn it off without rising 
if I wish. Jove, I wish we could smoke.” 

“I don’t believe Miss Meredith would object,” re- 
marked “Chubby.” 

“Possibly not, but we must deny ourselves I’m afraid, 
because of the probable effect of the unusual odor. 
We’ll make it a dry smoke, I think.” 

He put the end of an unlighted cigar in his mouth 
and sank back easily in the depths of the great arm chair 


Sherman Hale 


318 

he had chosen. “Chubby” seated himself nearby and 
began to ply his friend with questions. The detective 
gave him replies most unsatisfactory. 

“The old hen pecking at the shell,” he murmured 
softly after awhile, and with that “Chubby” subsided 
into silence. 

The minutes passed slowly in the quiet, dimly-lighted 
room, and after awhile “Chubby,” who, it will be re- 
membered, had been broken of his rest for two nights, 
fell sound asleep. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII 


“moke luck OR providence” ' 

“Chubby” Hichols was awakened by a light touch' 
upon his shoulder; the room was in total darkness. 

“Sh — h, don’t move,” the voice of Merriweather 
whispered in his ears. “Watch through the crack in the 
curtain. It’s luck again — or providence,” he added 
whimsically. 

The figure of the Reverend Augustus Camwell, clad 
only in his night-robe, was moving down the hallway. 
As the figure came into view between the folds of the 
portiere the dim light in the hall fell upon his face, 
and both men noted that though the eyes were wide open 
there was no light of consciousness shining from their 
depth. 

“Asleep, by Jove,” muttered “Chubby.” “He’s at 
one of his sleep-walking stunts again. By gad, now I 
begin to understand.” 

“Hush up, you chump,” hissed Merriweather. 

The sleep-walker paused for a moment in the hall, 
then turned and walked resolutely into the study and to 
his desk in the corner. There, under the watchful eyes 
of the two men, he re-enacted the scene which before had 
been so breathlessly watched by Myrtice Meredith. 

He found his bunch of keys, unlocked a drawer and 
took therefrom a piece of paper, which he smoothed with 


320 


Sherman Hale 


his wrinkled fingers upon his blotting pad. But this 
time either he varied the act or else the observation of 
Hiss Meredith had been inaccurate. He did not at once 
replace the paper. Instead, with a sigh, he took up the 
Waterman pen and with trembling hand wrote some- 
thing on it. Then, still sighing, he rose from his chair, 
replaced the paper, locked the drawer, put away the 
keys, and walked with unseeing eyes out of the room 
upstairs to his bed. When the door above had dosed, 
and all the house seemed silent, Merriweather sprang 
eagerly from his chair and, followed by the excited 
“ Chubby, ” hurried into the study. 

In a moment they had found the keys and unlocked 
the drawer, and a moment later the detective was eagerly 
comparing the paper from the drawer with another 
paper which he had taken from his pocket-book. 

“Look, ‘Chubby/ look,” he exclaimed triumphantly. 
“The same, the very same. This paper from the drawer, 
you understand, is the duplicate check which is Miss 
Meredith’s clever imitation; and this other you will 
recognize as the original paper which has caused so 
much suffering. Even you will be able to see at once 
that the signatures to the two checks are identical.” 

“But I don’t understand.” 

“Ho, of course you don’t,” impatiently. “You don’t 
think enough, ‘Chubby/ that’s what’s the matter with 
you. Don’t you see, you stupid ? The old man signed 
that check himself in his sleep.” 

“But— but ” 

“Oh, bother your buts. Do you want to know how 
it got upstairs? Barrington carried it up. Eor some 


“More Luck — or Providence” 321 


reason, probably because some slight noise disturbed him, 
Professor Camwell neglected to lock it up that night 
and Barrington found it on the desk in the morn- 
ing.” 

“But why did the old man sign it to-night ? And why 
did he fail to sign it when Miss Meredith was watching 
him?” 

“He probably did sign it that other night, too, with a 
dry pen. He has done this thing, it may be, dozens of 
times already, always using the dry pen, mind you. 
Yes, see here. By the aid of this microscope you can 
see slight scratches upon both of the checks. But his 
touch was light, you know; light and delicate.” 

“But if he signed with a dry pen those other times, 
how did he happen to use a wet pen the first night?” 

“ ‘Chubby/ your intellect is returning to you. I con- 
fess that this puzzled me for quite awhile. But the 
explanation is very simple. When Barrington was here 
he was accustomed to use a fountain pen, and Bar- 
rington’s pen must by chance have been lying at the 
hand of the sleep-walker on that first and fatal night. 
I may as well explain that I selected the pen for my 
experiment to-night from a study of the worthy secre- 
tary’s handwriting. I was sure it must the same number 
as that which Professor Camwell uses, because I also 
compared it with the handwriting of the learned 
scholar. 

“How, ‘Chubby/ no more, not another question. You 
step upstairs and tap on the door of Miss Meredith’s 
room. I fancy she is waiting impatiently for our sum- 
mons. And, ‘Chubby/ perhaps you had better prepare 


322 


Sherman Hale 


her for a little shock. I expect a friend here whom I 
would like to have her meet.” 

He leaned over and whispered a name in “Chubby’s” 
ear. 

“Jove, old man, how did you accomplish that?” 
“Chubby” asked in surprise. 

“By a little paper which I secured through the help 
of ‘Billy Bluff.’ By the way, ‘Chubby,’ you might give 
this to your friend. Ho, better still, give it to Miss 
Meredith to present to him after we are gone. I’m 
afraid that he’ll find its terms of clemency are at present 
only temporary. It’s only a parole, but we expect more 
as soon as we can get our chain of evidence in good legal 
form. 

“Ah, there’s a step outside. Go on, you addle-pate. 
Go up and summon Miss Meredith.” 

As “Chubby ran up the stairs Mr. Merriweather 
noiselessly opened the outer door and admitted Sherman 
Hale. 

“I couldn’t wait any longer,” he explained, as het 
threw off his great coat. 

“So I see,” Merriweather remarked drily. “I told 
you, if I remember rightly, that I would telephone.” 

“I know, but I couldn’t wait. Has it been success- 
ful?” 

“Perfectly.” 

“And it was the old man after all ?” 

“Exactly.” 

“By Jove, but it will be an awful shock to him if he 
finds out. Say, Merriweather, isn’t it possible that we 
can keep it from him ? Why can’t it go on just as it 


“More Luck — or Providence” 323 


wps? It won’t hurt me very much to finish out my 
term. I’m afraid the shock will kill the old fellow.” 

Merriweather looked at the manly face curiously, hut 
he shrugged his shoulders with a gesture of pretended 
indifference. 

“I should say,” he remarked, “that that is in your 
hands now. You can tell him or not as you choose. 
You can he as blooming a fool as you want to be. Good- 
night,” he added hastily, for his quick ear caught the 
sound of footsteps descending the stairs. 

Before Sherman Hale could remonstrate, the little 
detective was gone. 


CHAPTER XXXIX 


THE BENEDICTION OF PEACE 

“ Chubby” reached the foot of the stairs with a bound. 
He rushed forward impetuously and took his astonished 
friend by the hand. 

“I didn’t know I should find you here,” Sherman be- 
gan a little coldly. 

“Xo, no, but it’s all right, old man,” “ Chubby” re- 
plied. 

Then both men turned and looked up the staircase 
with straining eyes. Myrtice Meredith with her clasped 
hands clutching tightly an official-looking envelope, was 
slowly descending. He face was white, her brilliant 
eyes were wide open, her lips were parted in an expres- 
sion of mingled incredulity and anticipation. 

With her glowing eyes fixed steadily upon the man 
who was approaching her with out-stretched arms she 
did not see the hungry look in the other man’s face. 
She would have brushed past this other man in complete 
unconsciousness of his very presence had not the man 
himself stopped her. Drawing his hand across his eyes 
as one who would shut out the vision of the unattainable, 
“Chubby” stepped to her side, took her unresisting hand 
in his, and led her to his friend. 

“I hope you’ll both be happy,” he said huskily, as he 
placed her hand in that of Sherman’s. Then groping 


The Benediction of Peace 325 


blindly for his hat and coat, he hurried from the house, 
in his perturbation slamming the door after him most 
violently. 

The lovers heeded neither their departing friend, nor 
the noise of the slamming door, which reverberated 
through the house. They were not conscious, either, of 
the light footsteps which soon emerged from the room 
above and began slowly to descend the stairs. 

“What is all this noise ?” a querulous voice demanded 
close beside them. Then the owner of the voice having 
caught sight of the lovers locked in each other’s arms, 
the tone changed to one of stern condemnation. 

“Myrtice,” he stormed. “You ” 

The girl sprang from Sherman’s arms, the movement 
enabling her guardian to discern for the first time the 
manly features of his nephew. The old man gazed at 
the familiar face with terror-stricken eyes. His 
wrinkled lips were seen to make inarticulate movements. 
Then, without a sound, he sank limply to the floor. 

“Will he live?” Sherman inquired of Doctor Mark- 
ham some hours later. 

“Yes; it was a terrible shock, but his constitution is 
vigorous for one of his years. I have had to tell him 
all that has happened, though. It was the only way to 
quiet him. Now he wants to see you both.” 

“Now ! Both of us together ?” Myrtice asked in some 
alarm. “Are you sure it will not be too much for him ?” 

“I’m sure it will be too much for him if he doesn’t 
have his own way,” the physician replied with a slight 
smile. “I’m afraid we have a patient who will prove 
himself somewhat wilful.” 


Sherman Hale 


326 

So, hand-in-hand, they tiptoed softly into the room, 
and the light of the rising sun fell upon them as to- 
gether they knelt by the bedside of the man who loved 
them both. 

“The Lord bless thee and keep thee,” quoted the 
Professor, with a trembling, wrinkled hand upon each 
of the bowed heads. “The Lord make His face to shine 
upon thee and be gracious unto thee. The Lord lift up 
His countenance upon thee and give thee peace.” 


THE END 



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